But neither of them sleep. Siegfried’s ears pick up every sound in the house. Petra poking the fire, throwing on another log. Dousing it after its light has dimmed and the house is almost oppressively warm. He hears her shuffle towards her makeshift bed, hears her pull her feet up to join the rest of her body, hears the quiet thump of the blanket against air as she drapes it over herself. He hears the falling of her shoes on the floor, the little mumble she lets out, probably a prayer, her tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable.

No sound she makes reassures him. Her breathing is heavy, not with sleep but with the labor of pain. Only tomorrow will he know the extent of her wounds, when her skin will have forced the black blood up to its surface. Until then, he cannot sleep unless she does.