Waking her gently, he led her to his room, carrying the candle he had used to read by. She fairly jumped at the strange shadows the flickering light cast about, and clutched Anest's arm, wide-eyed.
Once inside his room, he closed the door and set the candle on his dressing table. The sylph watched him curiously askance as he readied himself for bed, occasionally casting furtive glances at the ceiling and walls, as though trying to ascertain their danger to her.
When he was ready, Anest then used the candle to light an oil lamp that sat on his night stand. He then blew out the candle and adjusted the lamp until it cast only enough light to make out dim shapes. Then, he got into bed.
She stood watching him with dread or interest, or perhaps both. Her tie to him was fundamentally different than that with her spring. For one thing, her bond with the spring had been more intimate than any man or woman could ever be. The spring had been part of her, and its loss had left her empty, comfortless. She felt acutely a dark void within that yawned for her like an abyss. If she could have spoken, still she could not have described the nature of that emptiness. It was her first encounter with death.