Panel 1: Some time later. Imogen is lying on the bed in her underwear as Laudna ices her sunburned back and shoulders.
Laudna:
You poor thing. But just think of how many lovely freckles you'll have after this.
Panel 2: Laudna lies down next to her on the bed.
Imogen:
Thanks, darlin'. That ice spell of yours comes in real handy. Never thought I'd be wishin' for a storm, but I'd welcome one right about now if it'd break this heat. Hope the well doesn't dry up.
Laudna:
Well, we've always got the teakettle. I do hope your poor strawberries make it.
Panel 3: View of the garden outside. It's looking a little wilted in the setting sun.
Imogen:
They'd better! The rest of the garden, too. I'd rather not have to go into town more'n we have to. ‘Least not until the fire lit by this new preacher dies down a bit.
Panel 4: Imogen presses herself appreciatively into the coolness of her body, turning her face into the curve of her shoulder.
Imogen:
Mm. Laudna, how come you always smell so nice?
Laudna:
Me? Oh dear, I think you might be suffering from heatstroke, darling. All I smell like is dead.
Imogen:
It's a nice kind of dead. It's like . . .
Panel 5: Laudna traces the lines of lightning on the back of Imogen’s hand with her fingertip.
Imogen:
Fallen leaves. Damp earth. Reminds me of the woods when I first met you.
Laudna:
You smell like summer. Honey, and sun-warmed grass, and the way the air is before a storm.
Panel 6: They gaze at each other, their faces close together.
Panel 7: Laudna leans in to kiss Imogen on the forehead, but she winces.
