47

Dreaming

KAT’S ROOM IS so cold. She can see her breath. It floats above her head as she lies on the bed.

Lies on the bed?

She sits up so fast, her head spins. A dull gray late-afternoon light washes the room. The clock on the mantle is stopped, the big hand at half past, the small hand past the one.

Is she dreaming?

A rook lands on the sill outside her window. One beady eye regards her through the glass. Then it caws, three times, Lost, lost, lost, bouncing on its spindle legs before it flies away.

Kat goes to the window and sees them crossing the snow-covered grass. Amelie and Isabelle hand in hand, wearing no coats, walking away from the castle and toward the sea. And with them, holding Ame’s other hand, is the little fishing girl.

A stabbing fear slices through Kat’s heart. She is not dreaming.