I still find it difficult to sleep, here in my world but also in our body if I hold this son at night. Ahren, Liam, they sleep well for their ages.
But I am accustomed to sleep on San. Last night when I finally slept I dreamt that I slept on a stone statue of him, rock hard and cold, unbreathing. When I tasted his neck, it tasted of flesh. But he would not stir. So I woke again.
I learn to take care in what one becomes accustomed to. I have a chance to consider what sort of bed I would like for myself alone. Well, myself, Ahren, Anala, and rarely, Avalon. Perhaps something very large. With carved posts at each corner, draped with something not too opaque. Lush and deep red, for some of the linens, with warm greys. Or perhaps I will change the linens each season, with lighter colours for the summer, like a beach.
It is all mine. One day I will sleep well thus.
We are all discussing what to do with the villa. The children are attached, and fear their fathers would not be able to find them. None suffer quite so much as Avalon, I think. She has had good advice at her journal. I am grateful for the community which supports her, and by extension, myself and us.
But in time, moving into Lyria’s garden is appealing – a large Victorian mansion, perhaps. I would like them to have a library, and a solarium.