Turbach valley is girded by snow-draped mountains, and among its scattered hamlets, a cozy chalet welcomed them in autumn, before winter ushered a familiar reverie of dwelling amid the frozen scenery.
Yet, she left a part of her heart in Ziriri, a little island of peace amid this ocean of raging storms that had cradled her family in its cottage by the woods, its garden where
Ella now sleeps underneath the earth, and its people whose hearts still dwell among the meadows.
Memories of Ziriri drift by in hundreds of turning pages, so Bible-thin and sacred that it seems only a blink of an eye has passed since she first breathed in the wildflowers thriving amid
winter with her then-fiancé, before thieves stole the life of forever she had envisioned, forcing them to sever themselves from Ziriri like farmers cutting a fruitful harvest of wheat from the fields before it could fully ripen, fearing the herald of a storm.
Her son's whimper draws her from the ocean of melancholy in which she has been drowning, discernible even amid the muffled howl of the wind battering against the windows on this frosty night.
"Oh, hush... baby," Neva coos, pressing a tender kiss to her son's beanie-covered head.
"He's awake already?" Rhett asks, looking up from the automobile engineering book he's been studying.
"He'd barely fallen asleep." She gently pats his back, trying to lull him back to sleep. But to no avail.
Her three-month-old refuses to fall asleep tonight.
"Bring him here." He half-rises, setting the book beside his laptop on the nightstand.
As she moves toward the bed, the warmth of the hearth abates behind her, and she hands the baby to his father before climbing into bed herself.
He lays the baby between them as she pulls the covers over them both.
"Are you scared of the gale, little man?" he murmurs, gently removing their son's mitten-covered hand from his mouth.
He smiles, lifting his eyes to meet hers. "Sleepy?"
"A bit," she replies, gently patting the baby's chest as he begins to fuss.
"Will you be alarmed if I say I want at least three more?" he asks. "I think two boys and two girls would be perfect."
Before she can respond, their son cries, the sound piercing through the spirited symphony of winter.
"Looks like your son isn't very approving of your idea." She lifts the baby into her arms before slipping out from beneath the warm covers.
He lets out a chuckle as she gently rocks the baby in her arms, praying that he'll finally drift off to sleep.
In the muffled hiss of snow against the roof and the crackling fire in the hearth,
she hums a lullaby she often sings to him.
Before long, his tiny form relaxes against her, his cries soothing into soft, steady breaths.
"Is he asleep?" she asks quietly.
Her husband nods, watching them with his head propped in one hand.
A sigh of relief escapes her as she rests her cheek against her son's tiny head, swaying slowly to make sure dreamland has a good hold on him this time.
Once she is certain Rhean will remain asleep despite the slightest change in comfort, she carefully settles him into the crib attached to her side of the bed.
As she covers their baby with his own duvet, her husband climbs out of bed and wraps his arms around her waist, drawing her close against him.
"Can I have you all to myself now?" He brushes her hair away from her neck, pressing a lingering kiss to her skin.
A sigh slips from her lips, thawing beneath the blessing of his warmth. She tilts her chin up, earning a slow, passionate kiss as the familiar roughness of his hand slips beneath her flared knitted sweater.
As his hand grazes her stomach and traces upward, she caresses his cheek.
"Not tonight, Rhett," she murmurs. "I'm a bit tired."
He covers her hand with his,
pressing a kiss to her palm before lifting her into his arms and laying her upon the mattress.
"Only cuddling, then?" He settles beside her, pulling the covers over them both.
Her arms wrap around him, and she presses a kiss to his hair as he buries his face against her chest.
"Are you finished with the 3D designs?" she asks, her fingers tenderly stroking his hair.
"Almost," he replies, his voice low and muffled against her.
She reaches behind her for the sketchbook on the nightstand and flips through its pages, studying the various stages of the car designs from his project.
He has been working on this for almost six months now, having begun it even before completing his project with Skoda. Back when he still had the workshop, he had envisioned to restore a broken-down car with a new framework of his own design.
But now that he no longer has the workshop, he plans to sell the design to a manufacturer instead.
"What would you name it?"
"You tell me, Angel."
"I'm not very good with names.
"So, there's nothing like this in this world as of yet?"
"Not yet. Your creativity is unmatched."
"I barely did anything."
She had only helped with the rough sketches he had made,
refining them with her own drawings while he gave her free rein over how charming she wanted the design to be.
If she brought out the elegance of the sports car, he focused on enhancing the comfort and safety of its drivers and passengers.
He had even let her choose the paint for the Skoda he restored himself. Someday, perhaps, she'll learn to drive one herself. Yet she rarely sees anyone here owning a car, and safe to say, the air is wonderful, though the same could have been said of Ziriri.
"Do you miss working at the workshop?"
"Not really. We have our hands full with our son." Sleepiness threads through his voice. "And if I could, I wouldn't leave your side for the world, anyway."
A soft chuckle escapes her. "You and your way with words."
He lifts his eyes to meet hers, a sheepish smile curling at his lips.
She brushes a few strands of hair from his forehead. "There's no report of Ziriri being harmed, right?"
"No," he says. "Do you still miss it?"
"A little."
Her thoughts drift back to the morning before they left Ziriri, when they visited Mrs. Barlowe's home. Tears had filled her eyes as she handed her two envelopes containing a humble sum of money, one for her family, and the other for Anna's, to help them through this difficult time. Mrs. Barlowe refused at first, but she had eventually persuaded her to accept them.
"We could go back," he says. "Sometime, when Rhean is older. Even if it's only for a visit."
"Okay." Then, a harmless shenanigan crosses her mind. "Are you too sleepy to make love to me now?"
He glances at her. "I thought you were tired?"
"Maybe you, my husband..." She traces a finger down his brow, along the bridge of his nose, before tapping the tip of his tall, beautiful nose. "Can chase it all away."
A smile spreads across his lips.
"I will lose a million hours of sleep then deny what my wife wants."
"Then give me what I want," she whispers, rising and drawing the duvet along as he follows her.
"And what does my Angel want?" he breathes as her hands tug at his sweatshirt, his soft, sultry eyes never leaving hers before he helps her pull it over his head.
"You." With a nudge to his chest, she lowers him onto the mattress, leaning in until her lips brush against his. "All of you."
In a heartbeat, he catches her waist and rolls them over until she's beneath him.
A feverish warmth blooms within her despite the piercing cold in this late-December night,
her arms wrapping around his neck as he kisses her with all the fire he has been holding back for her.