Book 12: Who's Kyra?

Misty

Cole moves through our little kitchen in a hurry. He practically jumped out of bed this morning, grunting and bumping into the dresser and the doorframe in his haste to get dressed. 

It’s not even light yet, and the usual dense morning fog that swirls through the village hasn’t yet lifted, but Cole is making so much noise that Addy wakes up in a fuss, his little face twisted as he begins to wail in my arms. 

I’ve been up with him for an hour now, at least. Cole, who’s been amazing with divvying up the nighttime wakings so we each get a few hours of sleep, didn’t even stir. In fact, when I rose from bed to take Addy out of his crib, Cole rolled over and covered his head with his pillow. 

I shouldn’t be angry, but I am. He acted strange all night–distant, and quiet. More quiet than usual, I should say. It was like he was in a trance, and after an hour of trying to talk to him when he returned from dinner at the packhouse, h