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      PART 2

      Two pots of honey I collected this week. John will be pleased. And if Mrs Hudson fires her oven, as she said she would, I shall make us fresh loaves. Then I can wake John with a warm bit of bread covered in honey – his favourite thing.

      He will blink his eyes open and smack his lips. Then he will roll onto his back, stretch himself and yawn the sort of yawn made by small woodland creatures, not grown men. After that he will blink his pretty eyes at me and smile a soft smile. The same smile I first saw when I awakened from the very nearly dead.

      I will kiss him then, all quiet and soft in the morning because, though I could try, why would I resist?

      Then I will break off a piece of honeyed bread and place it into my honey’s mouth. He will lick my sticky fingers clean because we shall not waste sweets and we will do this until all the bread is gone.

      Then, as he always does, he will grumble his way to sitting, throw his arms around my neck and kiss my nose, my lips, and the scar where my bubo once was. And we will sit wrapped around each other in the morning light, counting the waves of our breaths.