In the room, it smelt like him. Faith took a deep breath and relished it. Even though the perfume was delicious, like freshly baked sweetbread, his last words from the night before still rang in her ears. She needed to talk with him, but Andrew wasn't there. Maybe he was eating breakfast downstairs.
As she rolled over on the bed, the linens grazed her skin. Faith walked to the windowsill, her blanket wrapped around her. She was such a moron that she almost sobbed as he narrated his story. No, she was naive to believe he could be anything other than a jerk.
The sun rose higher as Faith watched the village of Hillfoot out the window. The streets below started to bustle with life. She watched as women and children went outside to hang their laundry, shop owners swept dust from in front of their stalls, and men strode out of their houses, carrying their tools.
