I slipped through the sleeping house as silently as a needle through lace.
My ceiling was sky and an eyelash of a moon.
I loved his howl, which I could both hear and feel: long and plaintive, woebegone and heartsore, filled with yearning for what used to be and for what would never come again.
He had a hound's sad eyes too -- brown with white showing above the lower lid and bags of skin below.
I soaked away a year of cinders and grime and Mum Olga's orders and Hattie's edicts and Olive's demands.
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