"If I knew how to do that, I'd be asleep," Yseult replies, beneath her breath but not so soft that a few words might not carry in the quiet of the cottage. The fire burns low with only the occasional soft pop, and with the windows shut and curtains drawn the waves are muted to a distant hum. She presses her thumb between her eyes a moment, until the pen between her knuckles drips ink onto the page. Back in the inkpot it goes, and the page is folded and fed to the coals.

"It's just foolishness." She gets to her feet with a sigh, crossing the few strides back into the dark and folding her dressing gown over a chair before sliding into bed. "A letter I can't seem to write. I don't have your ease with words."