Britamund turned her face into Dunstan’s collar and yawned. The poor darling was too tired even to lift her hand to her mouth. Dunstan rubbed her arm.
“Oh, Dunstan,” she whispered. “How can I yawn at a time like this?”
Father Dominic clucked his tongue and waved the back of his hand at Father Matthew, cutting his fellow priest off in mid-boast.
“That is nothing. We Italians, you know. Mine is twice longer.”
Ris pushed the door closed with his back. A last gust of winter whirled in behind him and fluttered the flames of the lamps, but the haze that filled the room stopped the delicate scent of wet pines outside.
| S | M | T | W | T | F | S |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| « December | February » | |||||
| 1 | 2 | 3 | ||||
| 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 |
| 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 |
| 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 |
| 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 |
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