“I can’t believe you said that!”
“Why? You think I don’t know what’s going on? That I sit here dreaming about twinkling stars and fairy floss?”
“Well no, but I…”
“You do, don’t you.” She closed her book with a snap and stood, crossing the oasis of carpet on the polished slate. The French doors were closed against the winter cold, but even the sight of the garden was soothing. “Age doesn’t automatically turn your brain to mush, Jonathon. I’m still capable of constructive thought.”
“Hardly constructive, I’d have said!”
The edge of bitterness was clear, but she kept her back to him as she said, “That’s your opinion. Mine is different.” She was shaking. With rage? Or grief that it had come to this? And did it matter? Either one could be used against her. She took a moment to calm herself, and when she turned, he was barely a hand’s breadth away.