Belay Me Down by Aurora North - FF Sapphic Alpine Romance book cover

Winter at the Lodge

A Bonus Chapter from Belay Me Down
by Aurora North

⚠️ Heads up: This bonus chapter is EXPLICIT. It’s a full afternoon of Nova and Sera alone in a snowed-in lodge, and it is unapologetically filthy. If you came for the heat, you’re in the right place. 18+ only.

Set fourteen months after the second ascent of Aguja Vera. Nova’s POV. One storm. One cabin. One whole Saturday with nothing to do and no one to hurry for.

NOVA

The storm came in at six in the morning and Sera did not wake up.

I noticed the storm because I was already awake. This almost never happened — Sera Hale had woken up before me for approximately four hundred consecutive mornings since I had moved into the big cabin, with the single exception of two mornings in March when she had a fever and I had taken advantage of the reversal by making her breakfast in bed and writing te quiero in chocolate syrup on the plate.

On this morning I was awake at five-forty-three for no reason I could name.

I lay on my back in the cabin bed with Sera’s head on my shoulder and her braid down the front of my thermal and her good hand on my ribs and her other hand under her own cheek, and I listened to the wind come down off the glacier and pick up by increments across the gravel, and I watched the blue pre-dawn start to light the window above the dresser, and I thought about how in approximately fifteen minutes the snow was going to start.

I was right about the snow.

At five-fifty-nine the first flakes hit the window.

At six the snow became snow — the real kind, the long-committed kind, the kind a Patagonian winter front produces when it has decided to close a valley for forty-eight hours and has no interest in anyone’s plans. I watched it come in across the gravel in sheets. I watched the main house go from lit (Paloma’s kitchen light had been on since she and Matías had left for El Calafate yesterday morning; I had not had the heart to go turn it off after they drove out) to lit-and-shrouded. I watched the dog’s little footprints across the gravel from his house next door get filled in inside of about ten minutes.

Sera did not wake up.

I watched her sleep for a while.

Sera Hale asleep was a thing I had been allowed to watch for fourteen months, and I had not gotten tired of it. Her face at rest looked younger than her face awake. Her mouth went slightly open on the left side. Her eyelashes — a thing I had not noticed until our first morning in the fabric box, a thing I now knew in photographic detail — rested dark on her cheekbone. Her braid had come loose at the end in the night and was unwinding down my chest. Her good hand was spread across my ribs. Her other hand, which had been her bad hand for six weeks fourteen months ago and which was now just her other hand — fully healed, IFMGA-recertified, full range of motion — was tucked under her cheek.

She was warm. I was warm. The woodstove had gone to embers overnight but the cabin was still holding the afternoon’s heat from yesterday.

I did not want to get up. I wanted coffee. These two things were in conflict.

I eased out from under her. I did it carefully, because I had been practicing this move for fourteen months and I had a technique for it. My hand went from under her cheek onto the pillow next to her head. Her good hand I slid, slowly, from my ribs down onto the sheet where it came to rest against the warm spot I had left behind. I put my own pillow under her chin, in the space where my shoulder had been, so the angle of her neck did not change. She shifted once, made a small sleep-sound that was not a word, and settled.

She did not wake up. I kissed her on the hair at the top of her head. I got up.

The main house kitchen was cold.

Paloma had turned the radiators off when they left. I turned them back on — low, just enough to keep the pipes — and I made coffee at the lodge stove in Paloma’s French press the way Sera had taught me, which was Paloma’s way, which involved a little pinch of salt in the grounds I had argued with Sera about for a solid month before giving in.

I stood in the kitchen with my hands wrapped around one mug, hers in the other on the counter, and I looked out the big window at the storm.

Outside, nothing. Gray. The south tower invisible. Cerro Torre invisible. Fitz Roy invisible. The main gate of the property was a dark shape you could just barely make out at the end of the road through the snow. Our two cabins were somewhere in all of that gray to the east, warm yellow squares in a field of white, and I had walked across the forty meters between them about six thousand times in fourteen months and I thought about that number for a minute, standing in Paloma’s kitchen with a mug of coffee, and I thought:

I have walked across that gravel six thousand times. I have walked across it drunk and sober, in sun and in rain. I have walked across it with Sera in front of me and with Sera behind me and with Sera’s hand in mine. I will walk across it for the rest of my life.

I carried the two mugs through the kitchen and out the back door and walked across the seven (or forty; I would never be sure) meters to the big cabin. I kicked the snow off my boots at the porch. I went in. Sera was still asleep.

I set her mug on the bedside table. I got back into the bed in my long underwear and thermal. I fitted myself back against her the way I had been, slow, putting my hand back on her ribs where she had put hers on mine, and she made a small noise and moved into me the way a body moves into a body it has learned, and she did not wake up for another twenty minutes.

At six-thirty-ish — the light had come up into a proper kind of winter-grey — her eyes opened. She looked at the window. She looked at the mug. She looked at me. She said, in the rough voice she had first thing in the morning —

“Hola, mi amor.” “Good morning.” “Storm.” “Yes.” “Coffee for me?” “Yes.” “Already up?” “Since five-forty-three.” “Why.” “I don’t know.” “Mm.”

She sat up against the headboard. She pulled her braid over her shoulder. She picked up the mug. She drank.

“Parents?” “Stuck.” “Good.” “Good?” “Yes. Good. They are fine. The hotel is fine. My mother will go shopping with my aunt. My father will argue with his cousin about politics. They will be home Monday. We are alone.”

“We are alone.”

“What’s on the schedule today, Nova.”

I looked at her over the rim of my mug. I said:

“Nothing. All day. Your parents are stuck. The lodge is ours until Monday. The dog is at the neighbor’s.”

She did not say anything for about three seconds. She set the mug down on the bedside table. She said, evenly: “¿Todo el día, Nova?” “All day.” “Bien. Get back in bed.” “I am in bed.” “Get back in bed.” “Sera —“ “I am about to take all of your clothes off. It is six-thirty in the morning. We have a whole day. I have plans. Get back in bed, Nova.”

I got back in bed.

She took her time.

I want to be clear about how much time she took, because in fourteen months of being loved on by Serena Hale I had never seen her move slower than she moved on that Saturday morning. She kissed me with her coffee still on her mouth. She kissed me for about five minutes before she took anything off me. She kissed me with her good hand on the side of my face and her thumb under my ear and her hair still in the loose braid down her back, and she kissed me slow, and she kissed me warm, and she kissed me the way you kiss a person you have the whole day with and no reason to hurry and nowhere to be and no audience and no clock.

When she finally pulled back she was smiling. “Hi,” she said. “Hi.” “Sit up.”

I sat up. She pulled my thermal up and off over my head. She tossed it off the side of the bed. She pulled the long underwear down my legs and off. She left me bare. She sat back on her heels on the bed with her own thermal still on, and she looked at me, and she said — “Lie down.” “Sera —“ “Lie down, mi amor.”

I lay down. She put her mouth on me.

She went slow because that was the pace she had chosen. She went slow because she had decided, at some point in the night or in a mug of coffee or in the three seconds after I told her we had the whole day, that she was going to take me apart in courses, and the first course was going to be this — her mouth on me, morning, sleep still on both of us, my hand in her hair at the crown of her head, my other hand flat on her good shoulder.

She took me with her mouth and nothing else for — I don’t know. Long enough that the storm outside went from the first committed flakes to a full thing. Long enough that the window went from grey-getting-lighter to grey-settling-in. Long enough that I became aware, at some point in the middle of it, that I had been making a low continuous sound into the pillow I had moved under my own face, and Sera had been making a matching low humming sound against me, and both of us had ended up in a rhythm that was not a pace, it was a pulse, the pulse a body finds when it is being taken by a mouth that has learned it over a year, and I came in the way a body comes when it is not in a hurry — slow, full, in a long wave, with my hand tightening in her hair and my other hand flat on the mattress and my breath going long.

She stayed with me through it, gentling, her hand on my belly through it, and when I was done she came up the bed slow, kissing my hipbone, kissing my sternum, kissing my collarbone, kissing my jaw, kissing my mouth.

She said, into my mouth: “Shh, shh, mi amor. Tenemos todo el día.” “Is that a threat.” “Sí.”

I laughed into her mouth. She laughed back into mine. She pulled the quilt up over both of us. She tucked her head under my chin. She kissed my collarbone once. She was still in her thermal. She had not taken anything off.

“Sleep a little,” she said. “A nap.” “The storm is going to be here a while.” “Good morning.” “Good morning, Sera.” We slept.

I woke at eleven with her sitting on the edge of the bed in her flannel pajama pants and one of my sweatshirts, braid redone, holding out a plate. Eggs. Toast. Hot chocolate in the cream mug. A small clementine someone had peeled and set in three sections on the plate next to the toast.

“Nova.” “Yeah.” “Breakfast in bed.” “You cook.” “I cook a little.” “When did you —“ “While you slept.” “Sera —“ “It is not a trade, Nova. I am telling you. Eat.”

I ate. She ate half. I ate three-quarters. The eggs had salt and chili flakes the way her mother made them. The hot chocolate was Paloma’s, from the tin. The toast was from a loaf Sera had baked on Thursday. The snow kept coming.

We sat in bed cross-legged with the plate between us and our knees touching, and I thought, with the specific plain gratitude of a thirty-three-year-old woman who had not eaten breakfast in a bed with another person in a cabin in a snowstorm before fourteen months ago — I do not want to be anywhere else.

I got a piece of clementine on my thumb, sticky. I held it out. Sera took it into her mouth. She held my thumb there. She licked the juice off. She bit, softly, the pad of the thumb, and let go, and her eyes did the specific slow Sera-Hale-narrows-her-eyes-a-quarter-millimeter look, and she said, around the clementine —

“Second course.” “What.” “That was one. Now I have plans.” “Sera.” “I want a bath.” “A bath.” “Run it.” “Yes, Sera.”

I ran the bath.

The big cabin bathroom had the tub Sera’s father had replaced in 2018, which was a proper cast-iron tub deep enough to sit two bodies in. I ran it hot. I added a little of the almond oil Sera kept on the shelf. I tested the water with my elbow, which was a thing I did now, and which Sera had given up mocking me for about three months ago.

I came back to the bedroom. She was standing by the bed in just her thermal. She had taken off the pajama pants. She was not wearing anything underneath them. Her braid was down her back. She was looking out the window at the snow.

I came up behind her. I did not say anything. I put my hand on the hem of her thermal. I lifted it up, slow, and she raised her arms, and I took it off her, and she stood in front of the window in the cabin in the middle of a Patagonian snowstorm wearing nothing, her braid down her back, and her body was the body I had been loving for fourteen months — wiry, strong, the specific shape her body was, the small shoulder blades, the waist that went into hip, the faint faded tape mark still at the inside of her left hipbone where she had been in a harness eleven hundred hours of her life — and I kissed the back of her neck. She leaned back into me.

“The bath is running,” she said. “It is.” “Don’t let it overflow.” “I won’t.” “Mi amor.” “Yeah.” “Take your clothes off, come.”

I took my clothes off. We walked to the bathroom together. I got in. I sat against the back of the tub, knees up. She got in. She sat between my knees, her back against my chest, her braid off to the side, her head tilting back onto my shoulder. The water was hot. The steam filled the bathroom. The window was fogged. Outside the snow was still coming down.

I washed her hair.

I had been doing it for fourteen months now. I was good at it. I undid the braid carefully at the back of her neck, and I worked it loose with my fingers, and I poured warm water over her head with the pitcher Paloma kept on the shelf, and I worked the shampoo through the length of her hair, slow, with my hands at her scalp doing the thing at her temples that made her make a small sound against my shoulder and close her eyes and go still. I conditioned. I rinsed it out. I wrung her hair over the side of the tub.

She had her eyes closed the whole time. She had her hand on my knee. Her hand on my knee moved up, incrementally, over fifteen minutes.

By the time I was done with her hair her hand was high on the inside of my thigh, her fingertips tracing small patterns on the skin there, and when I put the pitcher down on the edge of the tub she reached up with her other hand and pulled my face down to hers and kissed me upside down with her thumb on my jaw, and she turned in the tub, slow, to face me. Straddling my thighs. Her knees wet. Her chest against mine.

“Sera.” “Yes.” “We are in a tub.” “I am aware.” “You are —“ “I am not going to make you come in the tub. I want to keep you.” “What does that mean.” “It means I am going to make you stay close to the edge for a while, and then I am going to take you out of the tub, and I am going to take you to the bed, and then I am going to take my time. The tub is to tease you. Do you understand.” “Sera.” “Do you understand, Nova.” “Yes, Sera.” “Good.”

She kissed me in the hot water with her knees on either side of my thighs and her chest wet against mine and her good hand going down between us under the water. She did not go fast. She did not even, exactly, go for the finish line. She put her hand between my legs and she kept me on the edge — careful, minute adjustments, reading my breathing through her mouth on mine, pulling me back down every time I started to go up, speaking low Spanish into my mouth.

Mírame. Paciencia. Así. Así, mi amor. No todavía.

I made sounds into her mouth. She smiled against my mouth. She did it for about twenty minutes. Twenty minutes in a hot bath on a Saturday morning in Patagonia with my wife’s hand between my thighs keeping me on the edge of an orgasm I could not have.

At twenty minutes she pulled her hand away. She sat back on my thighs. She kissed my chin. She said: “Ahora salimos. Now we get out.” “Sera —“ “Out, mi amor.” “I —“ “Paciencia, Nova.”

I hated her. I loved her. We got out.

She dried me off first. She did it the way I had been doing it for her for fourteen months — attentively, taking her time, using one of the soft towels Paloma bought us as a wedding present. She wrapped me in the towel. She kissed my shoulder. She dried herself while I watched. She did not put anything on.

She walked naked across the cabin floor to the bed. She pulled the quilt back. She looked over her shoulder at me. She said: “Come.”

I came. I got on the bed with her. She pushed me, gently, onto my back. She came up over me. She put her good hand on the side of my face. She looked at me. She said, quiet: “Now.”

I am going to try to describe the next hour and I want you to know that I will fail, and that is okay. Some things are too private for language. But I will try.

She took me apart slowly on a bed in a cabin in the middle of a Patagonian snowstorm on a Saturday afternoon. She took me apart in the way she had decided in her coffee that morning she was going to. She did it without hurry. She did it without mercy. She did it with the specific combination of patience and attention that was the thing Sera Hale was good at doing and which was the thing I had been undone by at least sixty times over fourteen months and which I would probably be undone by six hundred more times before I died.

She started with her mouth at my jaw. She moved down. She took her time at my throat — pulse, then teeth, gently, once — and at my collarbone, and at my sternum, and at each breast, with her hand doing the thing on the one not in her mouth that she had known how to do since approximately our third night in the bed, and which she had refined across fourteen months into a move I could not describe if you paid me.

I made sounds. She kept going.

She moved down. She kissed my ribs. She kissed the space under each rib. She kissed my belly. She kissed each hipbone and the soft place at the inside of each thigh. She kissed the backs of my knees, which she had learned I liked in the first weeks and which she deployed now as a kind of punctuation.

She moved her mouth between my legs. She took me up. She brought me back down. She took me up. She brought me back down. Three times.

Each edge was different. Each one lasted longer. Each time she said something low into the skin of my inner thigh that I half-understood and half-did-not — mírame, respira, paciencia, mi amor, un poco más, un poco más — and each time she pulled back I made a sound that was not a sound I had made in my entire life before fourteen months ago and was now a sound I made often.

At the third time she said, into my thigh — “Ahora, mi amor. Come for me. Mírame.”

I looked at her. She was watching me. Her face at eye level with my hip. Her braid over her shoulder. Her good hand flat on my belly. Her eyes on mine. And she said, in English, the way she had said it to me for the first time in a fabric box at eleven hundred meters in a storm —

“Good girl. Look at me. Come for me. You’ve been so good.”

I came.

I came hard. I came for a long time. I came with my hand in her hair and the other hand flat on the headboard and my breath coming out of me like I had been holding it for an hour, which I had, and Sera stayed with me through the whole of it, her hand flat on my belly, her mouth on me, and she did not stop, and she did not speed up, and she did not slow down, and she took me all the way through it, and when it was done — finally, finally done — she came up the bed to me, slow, kissing my ribs, kissing my sternum, kissing my collarbone, kissing my jaw.

She lay down beside me. She pulled me against her. She said, quiet, into my hair: “Bien hecho, mi amor.” I couldn’t speak. She didn’t need me to. She held me. Outside the window the snow was still coming down.

We stayed in bed for a while. I don’t know how long. Long enough. Long enough that my heart rate came back down. Long enough that I could feel my fingers again. Long enough that I noticed, at some point, that Sera had pulled the quilt up over both of us and was running her hand through my hair very slowly.

She said, after a long time: “Are you with me.” “I am with you.” “How are you.” “I am — Sera, I do not know the English word.” “Try the Spanish.” “Deshecha.” “Yes.” “Completamente deshecha.” “I know.” “Sera.” “Yes.” “Otra vez.”

She laughed. She laughed into my hair. “Give me ten minutes, mi amor.” “Ten.” “At least ten.” “Okay.” “Water.” “Water.”

She got up. She walked naked across the cabin to the kitchenette. She came back with two glasses of water and a cheese board she had prepared before bed last night because Sera Hale was the kind of woman who prepared a cheese board before bed. The cheese board was goat cheese from the lodge’s supplier, a piece of the Patagonian pecorino Matías liked, and a sliced pear. We ate it naked in bed with crumbs on the sheets. Neither of us cared.

We talked about nothing. We talked about the dog and whether he had ever actually liked Paloma or just tolerated her. We talked about a climber Fernanda had mentioned. We talked about a book I was halfway through that I was going to give Sera when I finished. We talked about whether we should repaint the big cabin door in the summer, and what color. Sera wanted teal. I wanted the same color it was. We argued about this for eleven minutes without resolution. It was the best eleven minutes of my week.

Sera put her head on my shoulder. I put my hand in her hair. We did not say anything for a minute. I said, quietly: “I love you.” “Yo también.” “Do you ever think about —“ I trailed off. “About what.” “Never mind. Later.” She did not press.

She kept her head on my shoulder. Her hand came up. She rested it on my sternum over the scar Sera herself had put there one year ago when she had, climbing past me on pitch seven of the second ascent, put her crampon a little too enthusiastically on my collarbone in a place a jacket did not reach and had apologized for it for three weeks. The scar was a small white line. Her thumb, often, when she was thinking about something, went to it and rested there. Her thumb rested there now.

I said, into the dark of the afternoon room: “Sera.” “Yes.” “My turn.” Long pause. “Okay.” “Lie back.” “Mi amor.” “Lie back, Serena.” She lay back.

I went slower than she had.

I had been planning this for fourteen months. I had been planning it since about three weeks ago when she had mentioned, offhand, during dinner, that she had not been worshipped in her life and had said it like a joke, and I had heard it, and I had said nothing about it, and I had filed it away in the place where I filed away the things I was going to give Sera Hale.

I came up over her on the bed. I put my hand on her face. I looked at her. I said — “I am going to take a long time.” “Okay.” “Nothing to do. Nowhere to be.” “Yes.” “Tell me to stop if you want me to stop.” “I won’t.” “I know.”

I kissed her slow. I kissed her the way she had kissed me that morning, for five minutes, with her coffee on her mouth, except now there was no coffee and the morning was gone and what was on her mouth was me, which I had tasted on her mouth since I got out of the tub and had not commented on because I had been planning to come back to it.

I kissed her. I kissed the corner of her mouth. I kissed her jaw. I kissed every place I had kissed before. I kissed the specific places I knew she was waiting for me to kiss and I did not kiss them, not yet. I drew it out. I kissed her temples. I kissed the place at her eyebrow where a small grey hair had appeared last spring that she had not plucked. I kissed the underside of her chin. I kissed her throat — pulse under my mouth — and I kissed her collarbone, both sides.

She said, at the collarbone, quietly: “Nova —“ “Shh.” “Nova —“ “Paciencia, mi amor.” “You are not allowed to use my line.” “It’s our line now.” “Nova.”

I kissed her breast. The other. I did not stay long. I was not doing that part of her today. I was doing a different part.

I moved down. I kissed the underside of each rib. I kissed her belly. I kissed her hipbones. I kissed the old faded tape line at the inside of her left hipbone — a place I had been kissing regularly for fourteen months because I had decided, somewhere around month three, that her harness marks were mine to keep — and she made a small sound at that, the sound she made at that spot, which I had catalogued privately in a list in my head.

I moved down. I kissed the inside of each thigh. I kissed them slow. I kissed them for long enough that Sera, who had been quiet, said, into the pillow:

“Nova. Please.” “Please what.” “Please.” “Say it in Spanish.” “Por favor.” “Say it in English.” “Please, Nova.” “Good.”

I put my mouth on her.

She was so ready that she almost came the second I touched her. She arched up off the bed. She said my name. I held her down with my hand on her hipbone and I went slow anyway, flat and broad and patient, and I held her at the edge for a full minute while she made sounds that were not a language, and then — because I had decided I was going to let her have this one — I did the thing I knew she liked, the specific thing, the rhythm she had taught me without ever teaching me, and she came in about thirty seconds, loud, with her good hand in my hair and her other hand flat on her own chest, and she came hard.

I did not stop. I kept going. I brought her down soft for about a minute. I stayed there. I did not move up the bed. I kept my mouth on her, gentling, my hand on her belly, my thumb tracing a circle on her hipbone.

“Nova —“ “Shh.” “I — Nova —“ “Again.” “Nova.” “Again, Serena.”

I worked her up again. Slower this time, because her body was still sensitive, because I could feel her pulse under my mouth still coming down. I took her up slow over probably twelve minutes. I kept my hand on her belly. I kept my eyes on her when I could. I said the things I had been saving up — you are so beautiful, you are so beautiful, I love you, I love you, I love you. When she came the second time it was softer, longer, a long slow wave that had her making a small sound into her own forearm, and I took her through the whole of it, and when she finally came down she was crying quietly the way she had cried that first morning in the lodge bed.

I came up the bed. I gathered her against me. I kissed her temples. I said, soft: “Mi amor. Mi amor. Estoy aquí.”

“Nova.” “Yes.” “Don’t move.” “I am not moving.” “Don’t move for a while.” “Okay.” I did not move.

The snow stopped at some point in the late afternoon. I did not notice when it stopped, because I was asleep. We had both fallen asleep, tangled together, after Sera had come down from the second one. When I woke up the light coming through the window was different — not the grey of committed snow, but the thin high blue of a Patagonian sky going clear between storms. The wind had dropped. The cabin was quiet.

Sera was awake. She had her head on my chest. She said, without lifting her head: “The sky is clearing.” “I see.” “Stars soon.” “Yes.” “Are you hungry.” “Yes.” “My mother left a roast in the kitchen fridge she said I was supposed to eat before it goes. I promised her I would.” “When did she say this.” “At the gate, before they drove out. I forgot.” “Of course you did.” “Nova.” “Yes.” “Let’s go to the house.” “Now?” “Now.” “Sera —“ “Mi amor, I want to feed you. Get up.”

We got up.

I put on Sera’s sweater — gray, thick, the one she wore at the lodge all winter, which was too big on her and way too big on me — and thermal leggings, and Sera’s socks because they were the closest pair. Sera put on her fleece pants and the black thermal shirt that was nominally mine. She kept her braid loose. I put on boots. She put on boots. We put on coats. We went out the back door of the cabin into the clean blue winter evening.

The snow was knee-deep on the lower porch. The gravel was gone under it. The path was gone under it. The main house was a yellow-windowed shape in the blue-white across an expanse of fresh powder that nobody had walked in and nobody would walk in until Matías and Paloma got home Monday.

We walked. Halfway across, Sera stopped. She put her good hand on my cheek. Her glove was off. Her hand was warm. Mine was cold.

She said, quiet, with her face about six inches from mine in a Patagonian winter twilight —

“Nova.” “Yes.” “We are going to have all of these.” “All of what.” “All of them. Saturday afternoons. Snowstorms. Roasts in the fridge we promised to eat. Walks across this gravel when nobody else is home. All of them. For the rest of our lives. Do you understand.” “I understand.” “I want to make sure you understand.” “I understand, Serena.” “Good.”

“Sera.” “Yes.” “I love you.” “Yo también, mi amor.” “I love you for the rest of my life.” “I know.” “I wanted to say it out loud in the snow.” “Thank you for saying it.” “You’re welcome.” “Come on.” “Yeah.”

She kissed me — quick, cold, her lips warm — and we walked the rest of the way to the main house. We stomped the snow off on the porch.

The porch light was on. Sera had turned it on that morning on her way to find coffee. The kitchen windows were lit. Inside the kitchen the radiators I had turned on at six were warm. Paloma’s roast was in the fridge. The French press was where I had left it. Two plates were on the rack. The stew pot was clean. The lemon apron was on its hook.

I lit the kitchen light.

Snow came off our boots.

The lodge held.

The End.

Thank you for reading. — Aurora North

If this one hit the right place for you, there’s ninety thousand more words of Nova and Sera waiting in the full novel.

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