Page 22 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)

Rowena groaned; her head throbbed so badly that she squinted against the pain. That only made it worse. She breathed in dust from the wooden floor beneath her face and coughed, then raised herself just far enough to look around her. Wherever she was, it was so dim, she could barely see.

"Rannulf?" she cried in the start of panic, only to find his form in the dimness of this small chamber, stretched full-length and face down on the floor.

She came to her knees, but her vision swam so viciously that she nearly fell again. It was another long moment before she attempted to rise any farther. This time, her senses held true.

"Oh, my sweet love," she sighed as she came to kneel beside her husband. Her fingers sought for, then found, his pulse. She closed her eyes in a brief prayer of thanksgiving, then touched the torn skin on his brow. Her husband jerked in reaction.

"Quietly, my heart," she said, gently stroking his hair as she looked around her, finally taking stock of their prison. The chamber was empty, four walls of stone and a wooden door. That meant this could be no other place than the upper room of the stone tower.

Rannulf shifted slightly, then murmured, "Wren, you’re still alive." There was great relief in his voice. "Are you hurt?"

"Nay." In reaction to his question her hand lifted and she touched the bruised spot on her head. It hardly seemed worth mentioning against the gravity of their present situation.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"I think it’s the keep’s upper chamber, as it’s a stone room."

"Are we locked in?" Again, a breathless question.

"I don’t know," Rowena replied in surprise. It hadn’t occurred to her to try the door. Why, when even if it’d been open she wouldn’t have left him?

Rising now, she crossed the room in a few short steps. The door had no handle; only the insertion of a key would free the latch. "Aye, we’re locked in."

"Damn," Rannulf groaned, then rolled cautiously to his side. Rowena returned to sit beside him and pillow his head upon her thigh.

"I remember nothing after dealing John that blow," he said. "You must tell me everything that’s happened since then."

Rowena sighed. "Maeve told John tales of rape and abuse at your hands, and he believed her. That simple man was no match for her cunning words and sweet lies. Only after you’d both fallen did he open his ears and see how she used him, turning him into the instrument of her revenge against you. When he understood that, he made his master-at-arms swear to preserve our lives."

"And that is why I lie, mailed but swordless, my wounds untreated, in a locked storeroom with no pallet between me and the bare floor?" Rannulf managed sarcasm despite his pain.

"I don’t know why we’re here," Rowena replied, frustration thick in her voice. "Truly, he made his man swear to hold us safe." Although she hadn’t intended to chide him, the words tumbled from her lips. "Rannulf, we should have sent word. Our unexpected arrival caused John to impulsively strike out at the man his wife named a monster. Even Maeve hadn’t planned murder and tried to stop his attack. She only meant to hurt you by destroying John's loyalty. Now her mischief explodes in her face, and she knows full well what it will cost her. If she must die, she’ll try to take us with her when she goes."

Rowena freed a bitter laugh. "Mary, Mother of God, I thought she’d choke on her rage when John's man refused to finish us."

"What of Walter?" Rannulf asked, grasping for the only hope left.

"Well,” Rowena hesitated, the certainty that her cry had been for naught filling her, "I think they’ve been killed. This man of John's means to delay news of his master’s treachery escaping Ashby in the belief that his lord might recover enough in the next days to settle the matter with you. He thinks they have less than a week's time before we’re missed by Graistan. If only that were true! What will Sir Jocelynn do when we don’t appear in a few days?"

"Nothing, but wait. He has no cause to suspect that we've fallen foul here at Ashby. Nor will any at Graistan miss us." Rannulf groaned quietly. "If Walter is dead, I fear we will die as well, for I cannot believe John will survive that blow. Now, what of the wound in my shoulder? I cannot bear to reach around to touch it."

"You have no wounds there. Your thigh yet seeps, and your head is cut." She gently touched her fingers to his shoulder. "I don’t know if you broke anything in your fall."

He struggled to sit up only to gasp. "Help me remove my mail. If we die here, then I’ll do it in as much comfort as I can purchase."

A key scraped in the lock. Rowena, caught holding Rannulf’s weight as she levered him into a sitting position, could only shift on the floor to stare in surprise at the door. A moment later it groaned open and Nicola stepped swiftly and silently inside. A bucket hung from the girl’s arm, and she carried a tray. A tiny lamp sat at the tray’s center revealing what looked to be medicinal supplies.

As the tall girl turned quickly to shut and lock the door behind her once again, Rannulf craned his neck, trying to see who came. "Who comes?” he demanded harshly of his wife, his voice yet no louder than a whisper.

"Nicola," Rowena replied and smiled at the girl, only to receive a glare in return. "She's come to help," she added, with little hope that saying so might actually prod John’s daughter to it.

"Aid you?" the girl retorted, her tone filled with harsh emotion. "Why should I aid the man who laid my father at death's door?"

"Because your father betrayed his oath to his rightful overlord and attacked him," Rowena returned, throwing the seeds of logic at a field determined to bear no fruit. "If my lord hadn’t defended himself your father would have killed him."

"True, my father did wrong," Nicola replied, "but what of Lord Graistan? He knows my father as well as any man." She swept around the prostrate nobleman to stare down at her fallen overlord. "Why did you wed my father to that evil woman? You know my father’s temper and how single-minded he can be. Maeve used her words to goad a good and loyal knight until he hated you and exploded in rage when you appeared unannounced at our gate."

"My fault," Rannulf told her, once again struggling to lift himself and once again falling back with a groan.

"Please, you must help him," Rowena cried, concern for her husband overwhelming all else.

"You’re no better." Nicola glared down at her lady, her words now trembling with tears. "You dared use me, bartering with my life to save yourself and your husband. You used my father's love. But now it’s my turn to do the trading. I’ll treat your husband's injuries and thwart my stepmother's plans for your death, but only if you don’t hold Papa accountable for the evil you both laid upon him. If you wish to live, Lord Graistan, you’ll swear to spare my father."

Her lady nodded for Lord Graistan. "He swears," she said.

"I cannot give what he has already forfeited," Rannulf said drawing himself up, his words halting as he gasped in the effort. Where worry and concern could not move him, outraged honor could. "He broke his oath and attacked me, meaning to do me mortal hurt. His life is no longer his, but mine."

"You hold your tongue," Rowena snapped at him, her voice grim and hard. "Your stubbornness led to this ill-fated wedding, just as it brought us here without a word to smooth our path. Now for pride’s sake you’ll doom us to death. Well, I won’t let our child die because you are too stubborn to see beyond your honor. "

Rannulf shifted his head on her thigh to look up at her. Despite his pain, the corners of his mouth lifted. He managed a pleased huff. "I was wondering."

"Well, wonder no more," Rowena returned, her voice trembling with emotion.

He shifted again to face his gaoler. "Nicola, my wise wife is right. I brought this all down upon myself. If it’s in my power to do it, I’ll hold your father safe for you."

So deep was the girl's sigh that her tray rattled with the force of it. "Thank you," she said.

Two quick steps took her across the room to kneel beside them. "Can you sit by yourself? No? Too bad, for that’ll make it harder for us to remove your mail."

Nicola put her bucket to one side, and set the tray and lamp down beside them. "We’ll have to move your arms for you. If your shoulder’s broken, well, there’s no help for it. You must bear the pain."

Rannulf grimaced. "I’ll think of it as penance for my idiocy."

A moment later, as Nicola steadied him, Rowena lifted the skirt of his mail shirt out from beneath his hips. "Now, hold him upright for me while I work it off," Nicola said. "Whatever you do, don’t let him fall," she warned her lady.

Rowena did as she was told, watching the girl who raged over her father's wedding do this task with the same authority and confidence Rowena commanded as head of Graistan’s household. And Nicola’s efficiency made short work of the task, where Rowena’s fear of hurting her husband might have cost Rannulf much pain. Once Rannulf wore only his braies and coarse chausses, he sat, or rather leaned heavily against his lady, panting while Nicola picked bits of metal from his leg wound and the myriad spots of broken skin on his back where the bolts crushed metal through his undergarments.

At last, the girl eased back on her heels. "You’re fortunate. Nothing is broken, and there’s no sign of deeper injury. You’ll be purple and sore with bruises for days, both on your head and your back." She rinsed his thigh once again, completely unaffected by the blood that continued to ooze. "I feel like a traitor, serving you this way when my father is hurt far worse."

"Nicola," Rannulf said with a sigh, "I pray he recovers, for we have much to speak about, he and I."

There was a tap at the door. "Lady Nicola?" The call was no more than a whisper through the keyhole.

"I come." The tall girl rose swiftly to her feet, unlocked and opened the door. Two servants entered, one bearing a pallet and a pot, the other bedding and a sloshing pitcher. They did little more than drop their burdens and retreat. Nicola followed them to the door and once more locked it. Rowena frowned at this, but the girl only shook her head.

"It’s to keep you safe that we’re locking you in here. My stepmother very much wishes you dead. Know that, I’ve led her to believe that I’ll help her, in the hopes of delaying any attempt she may make on her own. Now, let me sew your leg wound, Lord Rannulf, then I must be gone. You’ll have to make up your own bed, my lady." There was the barest hint of scorn in Nicola’s voice, as if she felt the job was beyond the Lady Graistan's capabilities.

Rannulf laughed, only to catch back the sound in a gasp of pain. "She can do it," he persisted hoarsely. "She can even comb her own hair and dress herself."

"How can you laugh like that?" Rowena cried. "There’s nothing funny about any of this."

Her husband’s hand closed around hers as Nicola came to kneel before him, needle and thread in hand. "My sweet, it’s laugh or cry, and I prefer to laugh. Besides, our situation has remarkably improved in these last moments."

His breath caught against the stab of Nicola's needle. "Wait," he warned the girl, "my head spins. If I fall against my wife, I might hurt her and that babe she bears. First, give me some of that drink for I’m parched with thirst, then let me lie down."

While Nicola helped him hold the pitcher of watered wine to his mouth, Rowena leapt up and laid out the pallet, swiftly putting the bedclothes in place. Between them, they laid him back on this mattress. Then she held her husband's hand and gently stroked his hair while Nicola went swiftly to her needlework. Somewhere in the midst of it, Rowena gratefully watched Rannulf drift into a place where pain couldn’t reach.

The dull throb of Rannulf’s injuries heralded his return to consciousness. He blinked, striving to see. His wife sat beside him, and he didn’t need anything but his ears to know she wept. As well she might. Aye, and she was right to call him a stubborn fool, for that’s just what he was. In his arrogance, he’d landed them in a situation where they could as easily die as live. Not just him and Rowena, but their unborn child as well. It was the enormity of his idiocy that held his tongue and sent him drifting back down toward darkness once again .

Just as the blackness almost claimed him, his wife caught her breath and lifted his hand to her lips. She pressed a trembling kiss against his fingers. "I can’t bear that you might die," she whispered. "Please, please, don’t leave me."

As it ever had, the need to care for what was his settled heavily upon Rannulf, bringing him squarely and completely back into the mess he’d made of his life. With a sigh, he turned his hand in hers to twine their fingers. "Don’t cry, sweet," he muttered. "I’m not dying." Nay, there was no hope of that, for God would never allow him so easy an escape from this morass.

"Thank God," she whispered, then hiccupped. Her pretty face twisted as she began to cry anew. "Oh, Rannulf, I was so afraid. I’ve only had you such a short time when there’s so much more left of my life. I hadn’t even told you that you own my heart." She caught a breath, then brought their joined hand to her cheek. "Lord help me but I love you."

Her words made his heart twist. "Would that I did own your heart," he replied, unable to raise his voice above a whisper, but not because of his injuries. "What reason have you to love me? Until only days ago I’d been a less than an ideal husband. Now, what I’ve done may ultimately cost you your life. Nay, there’s hardly been time enough for you to come to know me, much less come to love me." Even as he strove to deny what she said, within him grew an almost desperate need to hear her vow what she’d said was true.

Keeping their joined hands at her cheek, his wife used her free hand to wipe away the moisture on her face. She drew a shattered breath. "But how can you say I don’t know you when we’ve been married for months, since February?"

Rannulf studied his wife, his heart aching in the strangest of ways. Her tears turned the dirt on her face to mud, which she’d just smeared into streaks on her cheeks. Her head covering was gone, her hair torn from her careful plait to fall in crimped waves past the gentle curve of her jaw. In all his life he’d never seen a more beautiful woman. And she was his, heart and body.

Or so she was trying to tell him. Again disbelief rose up to batter at what he so needed. "But I was gone most of that time."

She looked down at him as if he’d spewed nonsense. "Aye, you weren’t at my side, but your son was, and your brother, and your people. Every kindness you’d shown them, as well as your love for them, glowed in their eyes when they thought on you. I heard your gentleness when they told me their stories of you. Every time I looked at Jordan, I saw you. Aye, you were angry when you returned, but you have explained and apologized for that. And, in our bed"—her voice fell off into a shy whisper as she continued—"you didn’t hurt or take. You made me love you." Her words died away into silence.

Rannulf closed his eyes as the enormity of what she said consumed him. It was true; she loved him. The need to touch her, to hold her close and savor what she’d just given to him overwhelmed him. He tugged on their joined hands, urging her down beside him. She complied, slipping onto the mattress to curl next to him, along his uninjured side. He reached out, turning her face to his, and their lips met in a gentle union.

With her kiss, Rannulf felt his life begin anew, even in this dark and terrible place. He murmured in wonder, " You love me. Nor will you ever leave me, and not just because I own you. Graistan holds your heart as it does mine."

She smiled at him. "So it does," she whispered, then pillowed her head upon his shoulder.

With her words, contentment washed over him, bringing with it the need for healing sleep. He gave way to it without resistance.

Morning's light brightened the room just a little, for it was but a tiny slice of sunlight that entered the chamber’s narrow, east-facing window. Rowena opened her eyes slowly. With each increment her eyelids raised, the queasiness in her stomach increased. It wasn’t enough to make her want to empty her stomach, but it was uncomfortable. She frowned, knowing the babe within her was the cause, but wondering why there’d been nothing like this yesterday, or the previous day, or the one before that. Did she sicken only because she now knew she was with child and expected sickness, or was it because she'd eaten nothing last even?

A moment later and her stomach settled, leaving an odd heaviness in her womb. Sighing in relief, she rolled toward Rannulf. He slept still, his breathing even and deep. Her fingers against his brow said he had no fever.

Not wanting to wake him, Rowena rolled carefully to the side and came to her feet. Finding her beads in the purse at her belt, she went to the corner farthest from their makeshift bed to recite her prayers. Today, she added her own grateful words of thanks that they continued to survive .

Once finished, she stripped off her filthy gowns and tossed them into a corner, unable to bear them another moment. Dressed only in her shift, she went to stand at the tiny slit in the stone walls. She could see a slice of Ashby's bailey as it stretched, green and fragrant, down to the river. There the tumbling water rippled and gurgled, glittering in the reborn sun. From a willow's crown, a lark threw its complex song high into a cool and cloudless morning sky. Men whistled and sang in the distance. A sheep bawled; so did a child. The fresh breeze brought the smell of baking bread.

How could something so horrible have happened in such a peaceful place? Heartsick, she turned away from the view and found her comb in her purse. Seated tailor-fashion on the edge of the mattress, she set to straightening her hair. More fool her for ignoring it last night; she’d pay the price in tangles this morning. When it was at last smooth and straight, she drew it over her shoulder to plait it.

"Leave it," Rannulf commanded hoarsely.

Rowena started, then shifted around on the pallet to look at him, her hair sliding over her shoulders as she moved to flow around her in soft waves. "I didn’t know you were awake," she said.

"It appears that I am," he replied with a quiet smile, then his gaze shifted to the wealth of black hair that streamed down to puddle upon the mattress’s surface. "Leave it unbound. I like it loose around you."

Words lifted in Rowena’s throat, a protest that it was unseemly for a married woman to go about with her hair loose and uncovered. Then again, they were locked into a prison where no one would see her. Against that, if her husband wanted her hair unbound, unbound it would be. "As you will," she agreed. "How do you fare this morn? Is there much pain?"

Again, the corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. "Aye, pain aplenty, but you can help me ease it if you’ll aid me in rising so I make my way to yon pot." The lift of his hand indicated the chamber pot Nicola had left for them.

Rowena narrowed her eyes to show him she thought his jest less than amusing, then did as he bid her, only to stagger beneath his weight as he leaned on her. "Good Lord, but you’re heavy!"

"Odd, but my weight has never seemed to bother you before now," he quipped, then his arm tightened around her back. "Hold a moment, my head spins again. If I fall, let me drop. I’d not hurt you or that babe of ours."

"I will not," Rowena declared, resettling her arm around his waist.

He shielded his eyes with his hand for a moment, then took a breath. "Better. Now, let me go."

"I think not," she protested, clinging to him.

"Wren, you must. I’m useless to us as an invalid. The sooner I have my feet back under me and heal, the sooner we’ll win free of this prison. Let me go," he insisted.

Rowena did as he commanded, her heart in her throat as she watched him stagger across the short distance to where the pot sat. He had to brace himself against the wall to do as his body dictated. When he finished and turned, she gasped, for his face was white with his effort.

"Damn it, I am too stiff to retie this string. Do it for me, will you?" He leaned against the wall while she once again knotted the waist string on his loincloth. This time, he didn’t complain when she held him for the few steps it took to reach the pallet. But when she started to urge him down onto it, he balked.

"Nay, I won’t lie another moment. Instead, push the thing against the wall, so I can sit. You can wad the blankets up behind me to aid me." When she hesitated, not wanting to release him to do as he suggested, he snapped, "I can stand for as long as it takes you to move it."

"Now here is the lord I know so well," she retorted, her eyes narrowing again.

He grimaced in chagrin. "I cannot bear to be petted like an infant."

Content with that for an apology Rowena placed the mattress near the window, so he’d have the sun to warm him for as long as it shone into the room. After propping him up to her own satisfaction, she handed him the pitcher and he finished what remained in it. Slowly, his color returned.

"That’s better," she told him, taking the empty container to set it near the door and out of their way. "How is your head?"

"Well enough." His words were short and harsh as he stared out the window at the sky above them. "You should have told me you were with child."

Guilt shot through Rowena. "I didn’t know myself until yesterday, my lord. I said nothing because I didn’t wish to raise your hopes. Ilsa told me a woman's first often sits less securely than those that follow." She could not bring herself to tell him the rest of the truth, that she feared he would value her only for the child she bore and that would break her heart .

"You put my child and yourself into danger because you believe you will lose it?" He still didn’t look at her. His words were so hard, almost cold.

"Nay," Rowena retorted, anger at his stupidity leaping to life in her heart, "you put my child into danger because you were hell-bent on coming here and wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell you what might happen. I think you should be grateful that I came. If not for me, you would be lying dead next to that damn horse you love so well."

"Ah, Roland," her husband said sadly and sighed, still not looking at her.

Rowena’s anger grew. He had room in his heart for a beast of burden, but none for her. And, to think she’d told this arrogant ass that she loved him! "What, no word of thanks to me? I save your life, but all you can think of is that animal?" Her voice rose just a little. "Would you like it better if you died and left me a widow with a child who would never know his father?"

"It’s not the men in my family who die young," he retorted harshly. "If you hadn’t been with me yesterday I could have concentrated on the attack. As it was, I was half out of my mind in worry over you. Dear God, I thought you were dead for certain when your mare fell."

He shot her a quick glance. Rowena caught her breath for it was concern for her, not his horse, she saw on his face. "If I had known you were breeding you would have stayed at Graistan. All women are fragile, but breeding women are the worst. I should know. I lost my mother, my stepmother, and two wives to some stage of childbearing."

Rowena stared at him in astonishment. He wasn’t angry at her for not telling him about the child. Nay, his anger masked something deeper. "You are worried about me."

Her husband shot her another short glance, this one filled with new irritation. "Well, of course I am. I’m injured to the point that I cannot protect you while we sit trapped in this godforsaken room with no food yet this morn despite that girl's promise. And only after I practically kill you with my foolishness do I discover that you’re with child. You should have told me."

"Nay, that’s not it at all," Rowena cried quietly. "You’re terrified that this babe will be the death of me."

He slowly turned his head until he faced her. Rowena breathed in awe at what she saw. He couldn’t bear that she might die. His love for her radiated from him.

Understanding flowed like a welcome wave over her. But it only made sense. Their past weeks together hadn’t just made her care for him. It hadn’t been for possession's sake or to keep her inheritance that he'd chased her down. His purpose had been to apologize and explain, and bring her into his home at last as an honored wife. Nay, not just an honored wife, but a cherished mate. While she gloried in his attention yesterday, for it fed her love for him, she hadn’t seen that with his every word and touch, he made her one with him and gave her his soul.

"I am precious to you, and you cannot bear to think of losing me," she whispered before she realized that she hoped to tease words of love from him.

"Wren," Rannulf said softly, new pleading darkening his gaze "don’t badger me this morn. I’m hurt in both body and spirit. A man I thought I knew was turned against me, and I helped it happen. I’m also sick with fear for you. You’re right, I don’t wish to lose you when I’ve barely had a chance to know you. Now, come sit beside me and let me put my arm around you. I need to feel you close, for I’m suffering from a sudden loneliness."

"As you wish, my love," she said gently, burying her joy as she slipped down beside him to join him in the sunlight.

The sun had long since left the window before Nicola finally appeared. "My pardon for being so late," she breathed as she darted in the door. She bore a basket with breads, cheeses, and slices of meat pie. There was a pot of rich broth for Rannulf and a pitcher of barley water. On her arm hung a bucket of fresh water for washing. Behind her stood a servant bearing the basket of personal items that had accompanied Graistan’s lord and lady. The man swiftly shoved it into the room, replaced the chamber pot with a fresh one, then left.

As Rowena left her husband to pull the basket farther into the room, Nicola locked the door and went quickly to her patient to check her handiwork of yesterday. She nodded in satisfaction at what she saw, then glanced up at her father’s overlord.

"Is there news?" Rannulf asked as Rowena came to kneel beside Nicola.

"Only that Maeve gnashes her teeth in frustration this morn, for they haven’t found your four men. Richard says they rode all the routes leading from here to Graistan and there’s been no sign of their passing. He believes they now hide in the village or mayhap, in Eilington." Nicola’s hands flew as she rewrapped his bandages.

"How fares your sire this morn?" Rowena asked.

The girl’s hands stilled at the question, then her mouth tightened. Her expression said that she intended to heal her sire by her will alone. Rowena’s heart quirked at this, for only God’s will would bring Nicola’s sire back to health.

Her purpose set, Nicola shrugged. "He’s still unconscious, no worse or better. Last night I spoke with him, saying that Lord Rannulf wishes to speak with him about forgiveness. That made his rest easier. You do, don’t you?" she demanded of Lord Graistan.

"I do," he assured her.

"Good," the girl said, and came to her feet. "I go, but be warned that I doubt I can come again before the morrow." She slipped out and locked the door behind her.

Rowena went to the baskets and took up the pot of broth. "Here," she said, handing it to Rannulf, then watched to make certain he drank it all.

"Now I'll have bread as well," he told her, handing back the soup pot.

"It’s not good for injured folk to eat too heavily. You should have no more than broth," she replied, suddenly remembering a lesson long ago learned from the convent's infirmaress.

"Piss on it, I’m hungry. You hand me a roll, or I’ll get one myself." Laughter tainted his voice, and his expression lightened. "And when I’m done I’ll want to wash and dress in something clean. Best you use the water first, for I’ll leave it bloody. "

She handed him his bread, then turned with great hunger to the basket. All of a sudden, it seemed the child within her made her hollow with its need. She ate well. If the foods were simple, everything was fresh and savory with herbs and onions. When she finished, she washed, then helped Rannulf with his washing.

"Much better," he said in relief. "I hate the feeling of dried blood on my skin."

"Gilliam says you hate feeling dirty at all. I think he finds your insistence on cleanliness oppressive." She tossed the reddened cloth into the bucket and pushed it away from them.

"He would," Rannulf replied with a laugh.

Afterward, they dressed, he in fresh chausses and a clean shirt, she in a light blue linen undergown. There was no need within their prison cell for more formal attire, and the weather was warm enough to allow it. Rannulf settled down onto the pallet, his back to the wall, then chuckled.

"So, Walter eludes them, does he? It seems I underestimated him. I didn't believe him capable of so much independent thought. My hope for the future grows with every passing moment." He yawned and smiled once more. "Help me stretch out, will you? I think I’ll rest awhile."

She helped him to lie down, then tossed the blankets over him. "Rannulf?"

"Hmm?" He peered up at her, his brows raised in question.

"If—nay, when, for I won’t say if—when we’re done with this ordeal and the judgment on my inheritance is settled, may we please have a more normal life? I’m tired of all these doings. I think more has happened to me since I married you than in the whole rest of my life."

He laughed and settled down against the sheets. "It would be my pleasure to provide you with nothing but my dull company in an uneventful life. I can see it now. Year after boring year will pass. Now let me sleep."