The morning light bled through the curtains like spilled cream, warm and soft against the worn floorboards of the old house as Shantel stirred awake the next morning.
The scent of chamomile and eucalyptus still hung in the air from the compresses she had used on her grandmother during the night.
She rose from the couch she'd turned into a bed so she could stay by her grandmother last night and walked over to the bed.
Seeing Genevieve sleeping peacefully and her color slightly better, even her breathing had become less strained, Shantel quietly left to freshen up in her room.
About thirty minutes later, she returned to her grandmother's room. She was still asleep.
So she strolled over to stand by the window, sipping the cup of weak coffee the servant had served her while watching the slow stretch of dawn across the hills.
