Marking time
Margot had found it rather comforting, after the turmoil of the previous few days, to lie awake in the dark, waiting in the pause before the weighty inevitability of the funeral. It had been restless night: her sleep interspersed with vivid dreams and it was pitch black when she woke, no light yet edging in around the curtains. Once awake she had just lain there inert, but acutely alert, with every cell of her body tuned into the emptiness beside her in the large double bed. Eventually she had reached out into the chill air for the light, and peered at the clock. Not yet five.
Boadicea's Chariot 