Sarah Lang lay on her back, her eyes half closed and her hands folded neatly over her breast. Andrew lay beside her on his flank, book of poetry in one hand while the other was cupped over the dome of her belly, rubbing soothing circles as he read.
”’Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, enrought with golden and silver light,’”
She absently tapped her bare feet together, only half listening to his prattle; it was all something of a routine, now, since the infant had quickened a month ago. She’d put up more of a fight the first time he’d whipped out one of those soppy books of his, but Andrew had looked at her with those sad gray eyes and had spoken so earnestly of wanting to give ‘her’ something lovely that Sarah found she couldn’t refuse him his little game.
”’The blue and the dim and the dark cloths of night and light and the half-light,’”
Sarah kept still and patiently submitted to his poems nowadays; it was like having a check up with the doctor, really, dull but necessary. And Andrew did look terribly sweet, talking to her middle and smiling like a fool.
”’I would spread the cloths under your feet; but I, being poor, have only my dreams.’”
Ah, and wasn’t that the truth. With a sigh Sarah let her hand join Andrew’s on her belly, the corner of her mouth quirking up when she felt an irate kick just under her ribs.
“I have spread my dreams under your feet-“
“They can’t ‘ear you, you know.” she reminded him, yawning slightly and, with a little concentration, turning herself on her side so that she faced Andrew. He shot her a stern look, leaned in to press his dry lips to her brow. The child kicked under their hands.
“Tread softly, love, because you tread on my dreams.”