home

First had come England. The poorly lit flat had once been home, a book-filled retreat haphazardly decorated with Landon's favorite artifacts and Illiana's Italian tapestries. New flesh claimed the dwelling now, and while these current tenets were not at home, the unfamiliar scent turned Illy's stomach for reasons she could not quite understand. Home ought to be carried beneath the ribs, she mused, and yet. Here were walls she had once pressed her forehead to, smiling and dizzy with ideas, with love. Here were floors she had sometimes forgotten to sweep. And there was the stove Landon had burnt his hand upon.

How was it that he was gone? It was as if someone had gathered up every artery and vein within her body and twisted, leaving her pained and pale. When her feet touched the bricks of the street outside, she knew that she could never return to Britain.

The owners of homes change often. Hearts are more complex.