Franz woke before the sun.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn against the pale gray light that hadn't yet become morning. The lamp on the nightstand was off. The house was quiet. Somewhere down the hall, the twins were still asleep. Somewhere in the kitchen, Aunt Estella was probably already moving, her slippers soft on the floor, the kettle beginning its low hum. But here, in this room, nothing stirred.
Arianne was curled against his side.
She was wearing one of his shirts. An old one, soft from years of washing, the sleeves rolled up twice to free her hands. He'd given it to her last night after the shower — pulled it from the drawer and handed it to her without comment. She'd slipped it on over her head, the hem falling to her thighs, and crawled into bed before he'd even turned off the bathroom light. Short shorts underneath. Her hair, still damp then, spread across his pillow.
