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Sabine sits next to me, patting my leg.
“I’ll fatten you up a bit here,” she tells me. “You’re too skinny, like your mama. You’ll rest and you’ll… see things for what they are.”
“And how is that?” I ask tiredly, and suddenly I’m so very exhausted.
Sabine looks at my face and clucks.
“Child, you need to rest. You’re fading away in front of my eyes. Come now. Lie down.”
She settles me onto the bed, pulling a blanket up to my chin.
“Dinner is at seven,” she reminds me before she leaves. “Sleep until then.”
I try.
I really do.
I close my eyes.
I relax my arms and my legs and my muscles.
But sleep won’t come.
Eventually, I give up, and I open the drapes and look outside.
The evening is quiet, the sky is dark. It gets dark so early here.
The trees rustle in the breeze, and the wind is wet. It’s cold. It’s chilling. I can feel it even through the windows and I rub at my arms.
That’s when I get goose-bumps.
They lift the hair on my neck,
And the stars seem to mock me.
Turning my back on them, I cross the room and pull a book from a shelf.
Jane Eyre.
Fitting, given Whitley and the moors and the rain.
I open the cover and find a penned inscription.
To Calla. May you always have the courage to live free, and the strength to do what is right.
The ink is fading, and I run my fingertips across it.
A message to me? It’s almost like my mother knew I would be here, and she left this very book for me on these very shelves in this very room.
I slip into a seat with it, pulling open the pages, my eyes trying to devour the words my mother once read.
But I’ve only gotten to the part where Jane proclaims that she hates long walks on cold afternoons when I hear something.
I feel something.
I feel a growl in my bones.
It’s low and threatening, and it vibrates my ribs.
