Rowan finally allowed Ozul to pull him from the dream-memory that had started out with lemon suns and happiness and had ended with Ciprian's lies. The sides of his face were wet with fresh tears he'd shed over the pain of the past.
An ornate wooden canopy stretched above him, its carved images of butterflies and skulls reminding him of the altar to Yamm that Wren had destroyed after his father had shunned him. He lay there, staring at the shapes of life and death, flowers and insects and fruit, until the tears dried on their own, briefly cooling his feverish cheeks. He searched for a lemon in the beautiful tangle of the carvings, but he couldn't find one.
Rowan could sense Ozul beside him without turning to look, a silent presence that was strangely soothing in this moment, like the shadows he embodied.
