There is a special kind of resentment that the human heart reserves for those who make it feel old. Robena's dislike for Lady Liana is immediate and defensive. It's a reaction to a criticism unvoiced and undreamed, a criticism that only exists in the weary creak of Robena's back and the lull of her eyelids. She feels like she should explain that she was up all night pining - but that excuse weighs against the fact that she has spent many nights awake and pining and was always able to bounce back the following morning for another day on the road. Perhaps the heartbreak is worse this time, or perhaps Lady Liana's feather mattress is enchanted with the gift of blessed sleep, or perhaps she is some faerie facsimile conjured by Constance to torment her.

Robena restrains her sigh and her grumble. A hart. Xrisos, she hates hunting harts. Apricot loathes prolonged chase and she has to employ foul language from every corner of the Mediterranean to keep his pace up. And of course, if she encourages her horse in the manner he is accustomed to, she will seem very far from purity indeed. Especially in contrast to this pioneer willow girl who likely urges her horse to a full gallop with bats of her eyelashes and earnest speeches about the sacred bond between knight and horse.

"Very well, then," said Robena with a smile that was more like a grimace. When she was in Jerusalem a Bedouin trader crushed some dark seeds into a warm drink that was the equal to a week's rest. She hadn't carried any of those back to England either. [i]Fool[/i]. 

Perhaps by the afternoon she will concern herself with the state of her soul once more, but sleeplessness cares not for the devil. She seeks the stable.