On the bed two of the cats awoke and began to wash each other. Jenavere looked at them kindly.
“Such simple, perfect lives,” she said, “without a care. And we are animals too, but clutter ourselves with feeling. Laura, will you write a letter for me to my son? My eyes are worse today.”
And so Laura, replacing the book with paper, pen, and ink, took down the letter. It was uncomplex, mentioning details of the farm, and season, without a reference to Jenavere’s own weakness. It concluded: ‘Write to me soon, I beg you. I think some letter of yours has not reached me and I am hungry to hear of you.’
Heartbeast, Tanith Lee, 1992