Chapter 1
The last time he’d had this much trouble sleeping he’d laid in bed, alone save for his thoughts, desperate to atone for deaths on his conscience. He’d known, back then, that people would have to die. He’d known who, and how. But he hadn’t known when and he had grieved, even while they were alive.
It was worse, he thought, to know that it was coming.
He sighed and ran his hand over his face, then through his sweat dampened hair. The sheets were tangled around his legs, the duvet long gone, and he put all his thought into working free from their restraints.
The other side of his bed was empty. It had been for some time, judging by the sounds coming from the other part of his quarters: the chop of a knife, stirring, soft flickering of flame.
By the time he padded into the kitchenette the concoction was in a mug, steaming. The warmth of it was comforting when it was pressed into his hands, followed by a kiss on the cheek. Narcissa didn’t need to tell him to drink it and he didn’t ask what was in it, as he once might have. He knew, because he had taught her what to do.
Lavender. St. John’s Wort. Chamomile. Dandelion root. Valerian. Mugwort.
It would only help so much, but he drank it because she made it. He’d do anything to help her, he thought as she led him back to the bed once he'd set the mug back down.
She settled over him without much preamble and he felt his mouth twitch. He’d tried everything. She had too, had finally settled on a mix of tea and draughts and sex.
He envied her for finding a solution.