By the second day of Killian's sleep, Penelope had stopped pretending she was not counting.
Her house stood behind a cream stucco wall, with a white arched gate between two stone pillars and a lantern burning at each. Cypress trees rose on either side, and olive trees leaned over the path. Inside, everything was sage and sand and moss, earthy and quiet, with plants on every sill and a bouquet of orange and yellow roses at the center of the coffee table. In the world outside they would have wilted days ago. In here they had not dropped a single petal. The light through the tall black-framed windows never changed. Only the clocks said it was morning, and she had stopped trusting them.
