Celane’s parlour was spacious and pleasantly cool, with soft red carpets furnishing the floor and wide windows looking out over the garden. Old paintings hung on the dark panelled walls—still-lives of sacred instruments, muted landscapes, and antique maps of the city on stained yellow parchment. Guests lounged on leather couches, playing cards and drinking wine.
“There’s the woman you pissed off,” Millie muttered out the corner of her mouth.
Ilva stood by a bookshelf, her arms folded across her chest. She was pretending to read the spines, but kept glancing across the room at Jesane, who was engaged in a lively discussion with two other Heralds. No one else paid her any attention, and she looked so pathetic that I almost felt sorry for her. Almost, but not quite.
“I’m going to talk to her,” said Millie.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She just grinned and slipped out of my reach, leaving me alone in the entrance to the room.
“Great,” I muttered. Now I’m the pathetic one.
I fidgeted, my eyes sweeping over the faces of the other women in the room. This was the kind of socialising I was least equipped to handle. Everyone here was so much more established and important than I was, and I had none of Millie’s charm—I could not just walk up to the Heralds and start a conversation. Never mind that I would probably have to interrupt them to do so. Even the idea made me cringe.
Time, I decided, to hide in a bathroom.
The corridor beyond the parlour was decorated with a beautiful collection of devotionals to the Star Eater. Each of the traditional verses was written out in red ink, and embossed with small pieces of gold or semiprecious stones. I had not realised Celane was so ardent in her faith, but her passion revealed itself through the obvious care she took in presenting these scripts. Each lovingly framed in cedar wood, each protected by a screen of spotless glass.
Strange, how uncomfortable it made me feel to see even a hint of Celane’s private self. I did not like to imagine what lay behind her controlled mask of a face, who she might be in her quiet moments.
I found the bathroom and washed my hands and face. The whole exercise had not wasted nearly as much time as I would have liked, and now I was faced with the prospect of returning to the parlour or waiting here until dinner was announced. Neither option seemed very appealing.
I sighed. Maybe Millie had given up on Ilva by now.
But as I was leaving, I noticed that the door across the hallway stood open. Through the gap, I could see rows of bookshelves and a large leather armchair. Celane’s personal office.
I glanced down the corridor. If there was ever a time to pry into the Reverend’s business … I quickly stepped inside.
The room was cozy, lit by three wicker-covered lamps and pleasantly warm. A window seat overlooked the lawns. Celane’s book collection was modest, but well-organised. Judging by the selection of plays and novels on the shelves, she really did have an enthusiasm for the arts and theatre. I ran my eyes over the spines. Also quite the interest in Golden Age lacework applications, the miracles the Order had been capable of in the past. Some of these texts must have been borrowed from the restricted sections of the Department of Memories; it wasn’t the kind of material readily available to ordinary Sisters.
A lone book lay on the pedestal table beside the armchair, multiple velvet bookmarks poking out from between the pages. I picked it up. Memories of Our Mothers. Celane’s current reading looked cheerful. I opened to one of the marked chapters.
… could be viewed as sacred, both in terms of our heritage as custodians of Aytrium, and in terms of our function, that of deliverers-of-the-peace. When those two roles are brought into conflict—such as when violence is demanded in order to fulfil our duty of upholding the continent—civilian unrest inevitably rears its head. Our power, as any Sister knows, is both the well of our custodianship and the furrow that draws endless antagonism toward us.
How, then, to maintain order in the absence of reverence? Why, faith must be performed.
Again this applies in a dual sense. “Performed” in that our actions must confirm and renew faith; i.e., we must actively use power and let such power be witnessed. And then, the second sense, “performed” in terms of spectacle. We must inject theatre, artistry, and ceremony into such demonstrations of power, for therein lies the road to the civilian’s heart. Tell them a story and tell it well—power is performance.
Our failings, on those occasions where the Sisterhood lacked the foresight to …
A little dry for my tastes. I lowered myself into the armchair and flipped forward to the next bookmark.
Broadly speaking, we have evidence of four discrete phases in the transformation from man to Haunt. More might well exist, but to conduct a study of the farthest advanced stages of infection is beyond our present means. (Chiefly, the issue is of secure containment—to hold a Haunt past the ‘adolescent’ stage of development imperils all of Aytrium. See Chapter 9: The Cost of Mistakes.)
Stage One, or the Incipient Phase, is characterised by minor changes in physiognomy and mental state. After the subject has contracted the infection, the Incipient Phase may last up to a month. During this period, the subject may experience nausea, an aversion to certain foods, persistent irritability, paranoia, mild insomnia, increased sensitivity to sound and smell, and joint pain.
Stage Two, or Basic Manifestation, sees an escalation of existing symptoms: severe insomnia, aggression, drastic weight loss, depression. This phase may be as brief as a week, depending on the individual. Here, the more obvious visual cues become apparent. Secondary teeth begin to develop, the subject grows taller as his bones soften and regrow, and a distinctive yellow discolouration stains his irises. Frequently, these changes are accompanied by aggravated itching; subjects will often scratch themselves until their skin bleeds. After Basic Manifestation, the subject becomes unsuitable for use in Renewals, and expresses an intense craving for human flesh, most especially that belonging to Sisters.
Someone in the parlour laughed loudly. I jumped and looked up, but the low babble of conversation continued unchanged. Presumably, it was not yet dinner time. My heart rate slowed.
Stage Three, or Adolescence, often blurs with Basic Manifestation. Some symptoms may grow alarmingly more advanced before others even manifest. However, the key characteristic of this stage is that the subject completely loses the capacity to sleep, even with the aid of drugs. Speech becomes increasingly difficult, as does the capacity for empathy, reason, memory, etc. The subject’s appearance is wholly changed (see illustration 16B), and he gains a form of preternatural strength, agility, and speed. Sensitivity to smell and sound far exceeds human capacities, and antler-like protrusions emerge from the skull. This phase lasts approximately two weeks.
Stage Four, or Early Maturity, sees the onset of necrosis. Subjects are no longer capable of human feeling, and will not recognise even close family members or friends. Bones regain their hardness, irises are a flat shade of yellow, and secondary teeth are fully developed. Subjects are insatiably hungry and appear impervious to injury. With their prior personalities and natures all but obliterated, a new intelligence emerges in the absence of the old. Researchers have witnessed Haunts using lures to prey upon their victims, and they appear able to accurately mimic human voices. Unconfirmed reports of stranger abilities exist, but perhaps belong more to the domain of fiction.
To be certain, more advanced stages of infection exist in the Haunts of Ventris, and study of these …
“Good book?”
I started guiltily. Jesane stood above me.
“You appeared quite engrossed,” she said.
“Sorry,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t be here.”
She waved aside the matter. “I doubt Reverend Celane would mind. I just wanted to find you so I could congratulate you on that last catch.”
“It was a pretty spectacular throw.”
“I had some pent-up aggression, I suppose. I didn’t catch your name.”
From down the corridor rang a clear tinkling sound, and the murmuring of conversation in the parlour subsided. Time for dinner.
“It’s Elfreda,” I told Jesane as I rose.
“Pleasure to meet you,” she replied.
Delicate chandeliers lit the dining room in pale yellow. Four tables, each seating eight, were laid out with simple white plates and bowls. Sprays of blue flowers rested in slender vases, and condensation beaded the outside of gilded silver flasks. The smells of rosemary and garlic drifted from the kitchen, causing my mouth to water.
Millie caught my eye as I entered. I nodded to the furthest table, where many of the younger and less important Sisters had gathered. Nice and out of the way. But as I reached it and pulled out a chair, a slender hand closed on my shoulder.
“Elfreda, won’t you join me at my table?” said Celane. “Lariel was going to tell me about the theatre.”
“Oh,” I said. Behind Celane’s back, Millie looked horrified. “Of course, Reverend.”
Maybe she just wants to be nice, I thought, without any conviction. Millie had deployed her best winning smile, always a bad sign.
We took up the seats that Celane indicated. Verje sat on the other side of the table, Celane’s Oblate daughter was to Millie’s left. Jesane, who seemed equally surprised by her invitation to the host’s table, occupied the chair to my right.
I poured water into my glass and, at her nod, into Jesane’s.
The kitchen doors opened, and four Oblates appeared carrying trays of steaming bread, halved peaches filled with coloured sweetpaste, and soft riverweed braided into the shape of the Eater’s sigil. They carefully set the trays down on each table, bowed, and backed into the kitchen again.
“The star player of the red team,” said Millie, leaning forward to speak around me. “It’s Herald Jesane Olberos, right?”
“That’s me. And you are?”
“Lariel Sacor,” said Millie. “I’m here with El.”
“Ah, a civilian. How are you finding the party?”
“To be honest, a little intimidating. I’ve never attended anything like this before.”
I accepted a peach and some riverweed, and then passed the tray along to Millie.
“This is rather subdued by the usual standards.” Jesane smiled. She picked up her bread and bit off a piece. “I noticed that you were trying to cheer up Ilva. That was kind of you.”
“I think she might have had a bit much to drink.”
“Quite possibly. I hope she doesn’t cause a scene.” Jesane frowned, then shook her head. “So, Elfreda, where do you work?”
I swallowed a mouthful of the tangy, salty riverweed. “Department of Food Management. I’m a junior field research officer.” At Jesane’s blank look, I added, “I’m involved in finding and overseeing production of alternate sources of food.”
“Oh! That seems interesting.”
“Please don’t get her started on the bugs,” Millie muttered.
“So you must be quite knowledgeable about the water shortages, then?”
I nodded. “We work extensively with Water and Sanitation.”
“Yes,” drawled Verje from across the table, “so extensively that sometimes Food Management sees my department as a subsidiary of its own. Or at least, that’s the impression I’ve received from Deselle Somme.”
Once again, seeing Verje up close unnerved me. Although her voice was friendly enough, I could not shake the sense that her mannerisms were staged. Too deliberate. As if her actions were telegraphed long in advance and she had only been waiting for the right cue to begin performing them.
I might have been influenced by rumours I had heard about the Reverend, however; whispers that still circulated the dormitories. All Oblates trained in butchery before their induction as Acolytes, mostly working with dead pigs or sheep. It was a grisly education, but necessary.
It would have been over thirty years ago now, but people still gossiped that Verje had delighted in honing her flesh-cutting on live animals.
“I don’t think that’s the case,” I said carefully.
The Reverend laughed. “It certainly won’t be going forward. I plan to run a tighter ship than Kisme, may the Star light her dreaming.” She paused to drink. “I mean, the projects I hear about are insane.”
“Insane?”
“No disrespect to you, Acolyte. I’m sure you work very hard, but I don’t think toasted locusts are really the way to go.”
Under the table, Millie placed her hand on my leg.
“I’ve tried them,” she said, with an easy smile. “I think they’ll be quite popular, if there’s not much else available.”
“There’s more than enough food ‘available,’” said Verje. “And we’re anticipating a change in the weather soon anyway.”
Celane cleared her throat.
“I hear about the water problems every day in the Conclave, so perhaps a different subject? Although…” She turned to me. “Given the loss of Herald Zenza Lenard, I believe Elfreda will be giving a presentation at the water symposium in her place.”
This was news to me.
“But I’m only a junior officer,” I said.
“You have important first-hand insight into the issue. I think Reverend Somme was going to issue the invitation tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
“Jesane, you are also attending, yes?”
Jesane nodded, and the conversation moved on. It surprised me that Reverend Somme had not asked me whether I wanted to take part in the symposium, especially if she expected me to deliver Zenza’s presentation. She had always been sensitive in the past; she must know I would find this difficult. But I suppose that the Reverend was also under a lot of pressure.
“Raughn.”
I looked up from my empty plate. “Yes?”
“Your name has been bothering me for a while,” said Verje. “Raughn, as in Kirane Raughn? She was your mother?”
I felt cold. “She is my mother, yes.”
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-two.”
She gave me a pitying look. “Ah, I thought you seemed young for an Acolyte. It’s tragic, what happened to her. She was so vivacious too.”
The rest of the table had fallen quiet while listening to our exchange. They watched me.
“So sudden,” she said. “All martyrdoms are difficult, but for Kirane to join the Eater at, what, forty-eight?”
“Forty-six,” I said softly.
“Forty-six. This was a year ago, wasn’t it? I remember the inquiry.” She smiled. “Oh, but in the old days, Kirane was forever getting into some kind of trouble. You might have been too young to remember, but there was a huge scandal about her involvement in this subversive civilian organisation. All very dramatic. It ended when the organisation’s headquarters burned down. Pity there were people still inside, but at—”
Millie’s side plate shattered on the floor.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and jumped to her feet. “I’m so sorry! Oh no, what a mess.”
She crouched and began collecting the broken pieces of ceramic. I quickly moved to help her.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Celane. “The plates are easily replaced. Let me just call one of the Oblates to help you.”
Millie, out of sight of the rest of the table, touched my hand.
I will ruin her, she mouthed, then jerked her head in Verje’s direction.
I shook my head.
You’ll see. Then she got up, and continued to apologize, drawing everyone’s attention away from me. An Oblate appeared with a dustpan and swept up the rest of the broken plate. By the time everything had been cleared away, the main course was being served.
Seared fish flavoured with chives and lemon cream, sweet potatoes dusted with pepper and shavings of dried mushrooms, noodles in a clear, salty broth. So much food, all of it beautifully prepared. Thoughtless of expense, careless in generosity. I was unsettled and uncomfortable in the face of the Reverends’ easy hedonism, and ate sparingly, without tasting anything.
“Elfreda,” said Celane, as she set down her cutlery, “I hear you were something of a master at Tryst. Yet I distinctly remember you telling me you had never played before.”
“I hadn’t.” I tried to smile. “And I only scored one point, so ‘master’ seems a stretch. It was Herald Olberos’s throw that deserves praise.”
“Oh, so the pass came from you?” Celane asked Jesane with interest. “Unfortunately, I missed the moment, but I hear it was quite something.”
Jesane grinned. “I saw an opportunity, and I took it. Honestly, I’m surprised it worked. Earlier in the game, Elfreda had helped me out, so I…” She trailed off, and her expression soured.
Two tables away, Ilva had stood up. Her pale cheeks were flushed pink with emotion or alcohol, and she gripped the back of her chair for support.
“I don’t need any of you!” she slurred.
The room fell quiet.
“All of you.” Her eyes wandered until they found Jesane. “You think you’re better than me?”
The Acolyte beside Ilva said something soothing and tried to make her sit back down. Ilva swatted the woman’s hand away.
“Bunch of old dead women. Who cares? Who really cares? And what did I get out of it? Nothing.” She laughed. “I hope you’re happy now, Jesane.”
“Please stop making a spectacle of yourself,” said Jesane coolly.
“Spectacle? That hasn’t even started yet. You have no idea, but I do.” She swayed and mumbled something, then spoke louder. “I do.”
The Acolyte made another attempt to calm her down, but Ilva stepped out of reach.
“You’re all sick.” Her voice quavered. “I’m done with it all; I’m leaving now.”
She staggered to the door of the dining room, and slammed it behind her. A moment of silence, then a few guests laughed nervously. I felt stricken.
Bunch of old dead women. That could only be the martyrs. To hear Ilva raving—who cares? who really cares?—while surrounded by light and wine and luxury seemed monstrous. Like someone had peeled back the skin of a new apple to reveal a core crawling with maggots. It was real, as good as a confession. It was right in front of me.
Ilva had probably killed my grandmother.
“Unbelievable,” muttered Jesane. She cleared her throat and pushed back her chair. “Please excuse me for a moment.”
I was back in my mother’s kitchen, all the curtains torn down. This wasn’t an accident. The broken glass on the floor.
“If there is an awkward situation between the two of you, I can make sure that Ilva gets to her carriage safely,” said Millie.
Jesane wavered.
“Really, it’s no problem.” Millie rose from her chair. She ironed out the creases in her shirt. “Let me take care of it.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“Lariel, was it?” said Verje suddenly. “I’ll assist you. I don’t trust that woman not to steal something on her way out.”
The Reverend’s voice snapped me back to the present, and I tensed. Shouldn’t leave Millie alone with Verje. I wanted to stop her, but Millie’s mouth was set, and I knew that look too well; she would not listen. Before I could protest, she had squeezed my shoulder affectionately and was following Verje out of the room.
“That was upsetting,” Celane murmured. “I wonder what Herald Bosch could have meant.”
“Probably nothing, Reverend,” said Jesane. “She’s just drunk and bitter.”
Liars. Both of them. I swallowed. They knew, they all knew. But I could not afford to dwell on any of this right now; I had to rein in my feelings.
Celane shook herself. “Probably. It just made me think of the new condition that Public Health is investigating. It’s supposed to afflict some younger Sisters.”
Need to act normal.
“What kind of condition?” I took a sip of water.
Celane turned to look at me. Her gaze was sharp.
“Hallucinations,” she said.
I was lucky; I could cover my reaction behind the act of drinking. My heart pounded. I set the glass down before carefully replying, “Hallucinations?”
“Yes. Reverend Morwin said that they aren’t yet sure what causes the condition, but the individual experiences a kind of intense vision, which she can scarcely distinguish from reality.”
“Frightening,” I managed.
“Public Health is working on a treatment.” Celane was smiling, but her eyes could have cut glass. “Do you suffer from any kind of hallucinations, Elfreda?”
“Not to my knowledge, Reverend.”
“I suspected not. Jesane, how about you?”
Jesane frowned slightly. “I can’t say I have. Never heard anyone else talking about hallucinations either.”
I thought that Celane looked, for an instant, disappointed. Then her expression smoothed over.
“Well, I suppose that’s something to be thankful for,” she said.
Millie slipped back into the dining room. She had a faintly puzzled look on her face, but smiled when she sat down beside me. The conversation moved on, and I did my best to seem relaxed and engaged, all the while feeling like I might be physically sick.
Celane knew. Celane knew about the existence of visions, and she had known to ask me about them.
Verje returned a few minutes later.
“I paid the driver double,” she said. “He still wasn’t happy about it, but Ilva had already passed out on the back seat, so he didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter.”
Jesane looked troubled. “Is she all right?”
“As well as can be expected. Disgraceful behaviour. I’ll have to talk to Maternal Affairs about getting her demoted.”
“Oh,” said Jesane.
After a while, the mood of the dinner picked up again, but Jesane remained subdued. When the Oblates cleared the last plates, she was quick to excuse herself.
“I have to be at work early tomorrow,” she said. “Thank you for the lovely evening, Reverend.”
“My pleasure, Jesane,” said Celane.
“We should be going too,” said Millie. She gestured reverence in an endearingly clumsy way. “It has been a privilege to spend time with you all.”
“Lovely to meet you, Lariel. I hope to see you and Elfreda again soon,” said Celane.
Millie waited until we were out of earshot before whispering, “That was dramatic.”
“Tell me about it.”
She maintained a firm grip on my waist as we walked. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I was glad you were with me, though. Thanks, Millie.”
She briefly leaned her head against my shoulder. “Anytime.”
Osan’s eyes glinted below the rim of his hat. He straightened in his seat as we approached.
“I was getting worried,” he said.
Millie hesitated. “Osan…”
“Let’s go. We can talk later.”
Millie climbed into the carriage. I glanced down the street.
“Just El?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about something.” I followed Millie inside.
Osan clucked his tongue at the horses. We rolled forward. Once we were a street away, he spoke.
“How did it go?”
“Bunch of psychopaths,” said Millie.
“And the woman escorted out?”
“That was Herald Ilva Bosch,” I said. “She had too much to drink. Started ranting about old dead women. Did you see her carriage leave?”
“I did. Reverend Verje spent a long time convincing the driver to take her away.”
“Yeah, Verje told me to go back inside.” Millie grimaced. “I didn’t think twice about it. Presumably a compulse?”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I was worried about that.”
“No harm done.” She squeezed my hand. The streetlights passed, turning her face light, then dark, light, then dark. “I should have been more vigilant. Next time.”
“Next time?” said Osan.
“I made a few friends,” she said. “So I can do a little independent digging.”
Osan and I both groaned.
“What?”
“Who did you talk to?” I asked.
“Ilva, for a start. She’s clearly vulnerable, and involved in something.” Millie ran her fingertip along the ridge of the window. “She’s lonely and scared. I can work with that.”
“Millie, I don’t know.”
“I do,” she said. “It’ll be fine.”
“She’s unstable.”
“But not dangerous. Really. I can handle this.”
Osan drew to a halt at the end of Millie’s street. The horses stamped their feet and snorted.
“Don’t get reckless,” I said.
Millie leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Same to you.”
Osan watched her until she reached the door of her building. Then he turned the carriage around and we headed toward Pearl Boulevard. I slouched back on the bench, quiet for a while.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
“A lot of things.” We passed another cab heading the opposite way. The air drifting through the open window cooled my skin. “I’m thinking that if I’d stayed with my supervisor that night, she might still be alive. Or if I hadn’t told you to stop following me. Things like that. Why is Millie afraid of you?”
“I think you can probably guess.”
I fell silent. We rattled up the boulevard, the wheels loud in the quiet residential area. The night folded around us.
“You used to be in the Resistance,” I said. “And Millie’s scared that you’ll tell me about her involvement in the organisation.”
Osan gently guided the horses across the intersection. The Gardens grew larger on the left, and a layer of dry leaves carpeted the road.
“How long have you known she’s part of it?” he asked.
I laughed softly. Osan glanced around and, with irony, I performed an old gesture; a swivel of my left wrist to touch my right fist. The same gesture Daje and Finn had exchanged outside the Candle. It dated back to the Ash Disciples. It meant “we shall reclaim.”
“I can’t remember not knowing,” I said.
“I see.” He turned back around. “And what makes you think I quit?”
“You work for Rhyanon.”
“Could be two-timing her.”
“But you aren’t. For starters, she’s too smart for that. And you care about her.”
“And Millie cares about you. That doesn’t mean…”
“Why did you quit?”
He sighed. I waited.
“Let’s see,” he said. “There was a man. Renson. He made some mistakes, ended up in the Renewal Wards. As he was an upstanding member of the Resistance, I expected that his friends would attempt to save him. But they didn’t. When it mattered, the Resistance proved toothless.”
He turned onto Reverence Street.
“That’s when Rhyanon came in. At considerable personal risk, she managed to break Renson out of the Wards before he could face any Renewals.” He glanced over his shoulder. “About that time, I realised that the Resistance was full of shit. All rhetoric and bluster, no real plans. But Rhyanon, she meant business.”
I smiled. “So you joined her instead?”
“It was one or the other.” He stopped the horses. “This was about eight years ago, so it’s ancient history now.”
I climbed out of the carriage. “Were you Renson?”
He shook his head, looking a little sad, a little amused. “No. No, I wasn’t. But I did love him. He lives in Portevis now, where he’s met someone else.”
I put my foot on the driving board and hoisted myself up beside Osan.
“What…” His look of alarm vanished when I hugged him. He laughed. “Hey, what’s this for?”
“Renson made a bad call if he chose someone else,” I whispered.
“You think?”
“I’m certain.”
“Uh-huh.” He briefly returned the hug. “All right then, but please get down now before you spook the horses.”
I complied. He straightened his hat.
“Don’t go sentimental on me, Just El,” he said. “This is long in the past.”
“I won’t mention it again.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Get going, then.”
At this hour, the dormitories were all but silent. I moved quietly down the corridors and up the stairs to my room. A light burned in the passage outside.
I felt exhausted but restless. The evening had given me a lot to think about. A lot to worry about. Not to mention my other lingering concern, but that …
A folded piece of paper had been slipped under my door. I frowned, then knelt and picked it up. There were only five words written on the page.
We need to talk.
—Finn
I stared at the message for a minute, before crumpling the paper within my fist. No. I had made myself clear. We were not going to do this again. It didn’t matter that I missed him, or worried about him. The memory of his kiss burned bright in my mind.
He kissed me back.
And for a moment, just the smallest moment, I had felt joy.
I tossed the paper into the bin beside my desk and sank onto my bed. I would ask Millie to pass a message to Finn, but I could not face him myself. Especially if he wanted to talk about what happened on Moon Tide Eve.
Tired though I was, I struggled to fall asleep. I felt too hot. When I did eventually drift off, my rest was fitful. Vague, stressful dreams dissolved into nightmares.
I ran through the trees, retracing my steps to the Moon House, but instead of a vision, Finn was stalking me. Then I was chasing him, and no matter how fast I ran, he was always just out of sight. The forest began to collapse around me, and I was waving goodbye to Zenza while she begged me not to leave her, waving goodbye to my mother as they took her to the Martyrium, then I was inside the Renewal Wards and Declan Lars was on top of me—
I sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. My nightclothes were soaked in sweat. I panted, my heart pounding, and waited for the fear to subside. It must have been an hour before dawn; the streetlamp outside had burned out, and the sky had turned a dull shade of navy. My throat was parched. I got up and walked to the bathroom, where I drank straight from the tap. My cracked reflection shivered in the early morning chill.
Just bad dreams. I washed my face, letting the water drip from my neck. The worst since my mother’s martyrdom, but still. Just bad dreams.
I returned to my bedroom. The sun had appeared above the hills to the east. The light caught on my windowsill, and it was only then that I saw the lines. Dark, straight, running along each side of the frame.
I touched them and my fingers came away coated in black powder. Charcoal.