As Alberta's pale, gray winter sun bled through the high embrasures of the room, painting the fractures in the stone floor with an icy blue light, the only sound inside was the deep, reassuring crackle of the hearth. That familiar lemony scent of mine, woven into every corner of the high-ceilinged stone chamber, had completely fused with the runic, ominous fragrance of the black winter roses left atop the fireplace toward dawn, sealing the air like a heavy, mystical coat of armor.
Following the heaviest, most raw exhaustion I had ever felt in my life, I slowly blinked my eyes open. Where my white nightgown had been torn and discarded in the dead of night, I couldn't recall. My naked body was entirely lost amidst the pitch-black, velvety texture of the sables.
Yet, what dragged me from the safe harbor of sleep was neither the raw light of the sun nor the warmth of the hearth.
