Lysandra's quiet tears in the night gave way to a storm of emotion that lasted for what felt like hours. She cried from the sheer release of a burden she had carried for so long.
The hopeless task of saving for a single baptism, the fear for her own future, and the futures of all the children at St. Marla's.
Eamond sat with her in the silent kitchen, not speaking, just offering his presence as an anchor until her sobs subsided into hiccups and then into a weary, but profound, calm.
"Thank you," she finally whispered, her voice hoarse but clear. She looked at him, her red-rimmed eyes holding a new, fierce light.
"Eamond, thank you. You have no idea… you just have no idea what this means."
"I think I'm starting to," he replied with a smirk.
With a new energy that seemed to burn away her exhaustion, Lysandra stood. "They need to know. They have to know right now."
"It's the middle of the night," Eamond cautioned.
