The talk began as whispers—another cough that would not heal, a family sealing their doors and marking their windows with salt and prayers. By dusk, the smoke of burned bedding drifted over the valley.
Tristan washed his hands until the skin reddened. Shannon caught his wrist. "Enough," he said quietly. "You'll hurt yourself."
Tristan met his eyes. "Then we do what we can while we still can."
Later, as the bell rang for the dead, Shannon drew him close and said the words that had been building for weeks: "I won't wait for the fever to take what's ours. Marry me—now, while we still breathe. Let's not wait for the next three moons as we planned."
"Marry now? As in today or tomorrow?" Tristan wasn't sure he heard right.
"Yes," Shannon's voice was steady and his gaze fixed on Tristan.
"What about your family at Blackthorn?" Tristan asked in disbelief.
