Antigone considered her aches and her heart, considered terror and the sick and shameful feeling of betrayal. No, no better.
Antigone considered the saint in front of her, brewing coffee.
"Better and worse?" Antigone said, not sure how to weigh one up against the other. "Sleep helped." She couldn't believe how tired she'd been by the time they arrived back here. Tired enough she would have lay down and slept on the floor. Tired enough that Joan had had to literally tuck her in, she hadn't been able to pull the blankets over herself. So tired. "Thanks," she croaked, voice still asleep. "For the bed."