For the first time in somewhere close to twenty years, Edward Rochester opened his eyes and realized consciousness with no amount of latent bitterness or dread. Dissipating to dust, pain and anger scattered through the ethers of the dreary, sun-drenched master chamber, and the delicate weight of Jane's head he felt resting on his chest - the tiny, exquisite grasp of her tenuous limbs he felt around him. For the very first time in his life, Edward woke with her in his embrace, her little, fond touch ready and unyielding.

Where was that touch? What was it like, again? He grazed his hand up her arm to her shoulder, stroked the sleeve and felt the warm skin underneath. 'Please, Jane, wake up,' he thought, yearning selfishly for her breathing to unsteady itself and break into the more ragged breaths of bodily cognizance. Instead of waiting, Edward lifted his hand to the curve of her cheek. It was marvelous, he thought, how understanding the significance of angles and bends and curves and shapes could be so important. How else was he to know what that little impish face would tell him if he could read it? If speech, like in sleep, was rendered impossible on her part, how else was he to infer or determine the needs and wishes of his wife? Now, however, she seemed peaceful, her sleep untroubled, her face unbothered and relaxed.

After a day of emotional tumult and seductively persistent thoughts of love and peace and God and unity and being forever joined without malignant consequence alluring them into irrevocable happiness, the night had been spent in languid, anxious unearthing of spiritual closeness. The nervousness had been infectious, but the intoxicating effects of dinner and the tender compassion they each had for the other's perceived insufficiencies soon caused them both to succumb.

'How had she looked?' he wondered. The truth was known to him without the confirmation of touch or sound – she was lovely. She was new and little and plain and sharp and beautiful. But how had he looked? Of that he was less uncertain. When he touched her, a tremble in her voice never came; he didn't hear the sound of footsteps retreating to the other side of the room. Instead a hand had been placed on his chest, over his heart. Why? Had she been afraid, he had asked-'perhaps a little, but the fear serves a purpose, Edward,' she had replied.

"Jane." She stirred, the bedcovers rustled, the weight shifted. The heaviness was no longer on his chest, and his fingertips slid from her skin. She was close though, very close. Her breath could be felt on his cheek; her nose skimmed his in greeting. The urgent longing to see her, that had plagued him all the previous day, returned. 'It is God's will,' he told himself. Edward would wait to see her face once again; he would always hope against all odds, but would never expect the mercy he knew he could never rightfully claim. Whether in this life or the next, he knew he would see her again, but for now he must be content with simply having her for himself. That was enough – it had to be.

Jane kissed him hesitantly, and through the morning silence, he heard her small, shy voice, "Good morning, Edward."