He kept reading. He shifted back against her pillows and tried to focus on the words, trying to understand what was so fascinating. Perhaps it was the promise of another life inside the pages. Perhaps it was the way sorrow could be made beautiful when written properly. Perhaps Diana liked books because no one inside them could reach out and take from her without permission.
He laid back on the bed, his head sinking into her pillow. It smelled faintly of her. Still, he remained committed to the book, dragging his eyes over the lines even as the words began to blur. If nothing else, at least her books were a quick way to fall asleep. He would have to inform her of this discovery.
Soon, his eyelids grew heavy. The book lowered against his chest. Sleep took him slowly, then cruelly.
His dreams were not kind. First, Diana stood at the far end of a corridor, dressed in white, her veil covering her face. He called her name, but she stepped backward, hiding behind Henry.
