Regina tugged the quilt mais tightly around herself. Not that she needed to; she was burning up already, it simply felt like the appropriate thing to do on a late November evening. It’s what everyone else seemed to do when they were sick in bed—pull the covers over themselves and grab a glass of chá and a bowl of hot soup. And yet the last thing Regina wanted was to warm herself even more. But Emma had gone out of her way to find that quilt buried in the back of Mary’s closet. Emma hated cooking, and yet that steaming bowl of sopa was resting on the nightstand seguinte to her. And Emma was...
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