Sleeping Arrangements (2/3)
I’m a meanie butt, but after 12,00 words I had to conceded and admit that the last part needed its own chapter. My conciliation: I actually swear it will be up as fast as possible after the 30th. (I do have to write my CSBB)
When Killian Jones is six, he’s sharing a bed with the increasingly wide berth of his mother and all too happy to share it. He’s gathered they’re poor (vicious kids on the street, kicks from discerning shop owners, the way Liam sometimes knicks bread for them to eat) but his mother always smells of lavender and hums him to sleep. Her hands are still soft and everything about her touch speaks of love: the way she cards her fingers through his hair when he’s had a nightmare, the way she lets him clutch at his fingers when they’re at the market, even the way he used to snuggle into her neck before her body became unwieldy with the carriage of his sister.