“Swayed gently,” he said. “A great rustling. Tunnels in bedclothes, an unwrapping of parcels. Her face grew flushed—”
So did mine.
“Half asleep, she crept up close to the pillow and whispered in his ear, damp from—”
“That is not The Velveteen Rabbit,” I said, my voice hoarse from disuse.
“Welcome back,” Noah said.