A cool body presses against your back as your chest warms with the heat of the fireplace. The random crackling of the logs burning in the fireplace accompanies your faint voices and the quiet rustle of the man's lips moving away from your skin and then back again. Resting your head in his arm tucked under you, you lie with your eyes closed, trying to numb the pain in your temples.

Sometimes you wiggle your legs, pulling them up to your warm belly, and the man lying beside you, as if waking up, opens his eyes with you, reaches for his judicial robe to cover your cold feet. They touch his feet, and it wakes him from his slumber too, when the coolness of your heels casually touches the man's knees.

The gray, greenish sky weighs down on the city, looking as close in the panoramic window as it does in the camera lens. He wants to let the sunshine in through the window, but the events he has recently experienced, which have restored his original strength and opened his eyes to many things that until now seemed only shadows of shadows, are stronger than his melancholy mood.

You wrap yourself in his robes, inhaling the smell of the unfamiliar perfume of those in the audience, the settled dust on the long scarlet drapes that soaked the entire hall of the Epiclese Theater. Nevillet's outer garments were imbued with the spirit of the place, becoming inseparable from his tall figure.

"If you're cold, we can go to bed," his voice came from beneath the weighty robe, and he spoke so quietly that it was unusual for him to behave so quietly during trials, when his voice thumped against the walls of the hall.

You feel good, you resist any change of position, you would refuse even to let him carry you in his arms.

"How are you feeling?" He asks and looks at the top of your head, the only one visible from under the 'cover', and he wants to look into your eyes to understand the severity of your condition. "It's been about half an hour since you took the headache pill."