The Freckles

Bubbled glass rattled in loose casements against the wispy winter. The dim haze of morning pierced through, spilling across the bed. The fire was well banked, the room yet warm. He looked over her, admiring the pale, freckled shoulder stealing from the quilts. Her red ringlets sprawled unruly across her pillow. He extracted a feather from the pillow lest it poke and wake her. She turned, a slow, lazy roll away from the light. A smile passed across her lips. It was calm, peaceful. There were few mornings like this, and he wanted to enjoy what little time they had.