"HHAATTCCHHII!"
A sharp, unceremonious sneeze that startled the silence of the solar.
Yelena was curled into a high-backed chair upholstered in velvet the color of a bruised plum, a heavy, leather-bound grimoire resting against her knees.
Before the echo could even fade, a pair of massive, calloused hands settled over her shoulders, followed by the familiar, furnace-like heat of a body that had spent decades absorbing the sun of a hundred battlefields.
Her dear husband, Calixto.
"Are you unwell, my moon?" His voice was a low, rumbling vibration against the back of her neck, thick with a worry that bordered on the absurd. " Should I call for the physician? I'll have the man dragged from the village by his ears if I have to."
