Sobbing On A Rainy Night

"You have a lot of nerve! Neither by request nor by threat!" shouted Sister Lemoine, pulling Arya this time not by the wrist but by the ear. "I gave you a punishment and you just ran away like that! You're not afraid of anything, are you!" she screamed in the middle of the corridor on the ground floor by the big old chest of drawers. "Vile creature! You like making fun of me huh? You think I can't do anything!" chattered Sister Lemoine to herself while rummaging through a drawer. "Where are those candles!" she shouted, unable to find them in the darkness. "Make yourself useful and fetch the lamps from the first floor!" she shouted at Arya.

"There is no lamp on the first floor. " replied the girl.

"How do you know?"

"I was there. They're all cracked."

"What were you doing up there? I told everyone to go to the dormitories! Well, yes... after all, you were, as always, somewhere other than everyone else." snorted Sister Lemoine angrily.

"I was in the bathhouse."

"What for?"

"I got my sleeves dirty. I went to clean them."

Sister Lemoine tugged at both her wrists and hissed:

"Dry!" and immediately pushed her away like a walking plague. "Since we don't have lamps, bring candles."

Arya didn't flinch and stared into the darkness pouring down the stairs of the first floor from which she had just escaped. The whistling of the wind flowed down along with the darkness and gave the girl shivers and chills.

"Are you deaf or what? I said bring the candles!"

"Sister... there's something on the first floor...."

"What?" Sister Lemoine frowned.

"It's true. I heard it myself."

"You? Fearful? That's one thing I won't believe even under torture! Don't annoy me and go get those candles immediately!"

Arya had no choice but to go where she was told. When Sister Lemoine angrily closed the last drawer and went to the laundry room Arya was left alone. She stared at the dark spot above the stairs and could not bring herself to step forward. Suddenly it brightened slightly. Arya turned behind her and saw a curtain of purple and green light through the large windows. It hung stubbornly on the horizon like oil on water. After a moment, it began to curl and curl as if it were forming into something. Something in the distance rose from the glow, and a ghostly crunch sounded again on the first floor. Arya tore her gaze away from the light and ran into the atrium. She beat the heavy oak door again and stepped outside.

In the courtyard, a cold strong wind hit her in the face. The rain was picking up, but Arya could still see the carriage that Sister Forsyth had used to set off towards the harbour disappearing through the orphanage gates. The aurora on the horizon began to form a bar. Arya had to take a closer look at the phenomenon. She skipped to the high wall rising around the courtyard. She grabbed firmly onto the thick snares of clematis and honeysuckle that had entwined it for almost a century, and climbed up. The wall stretched along both sides of the building like a laurel wreath. Only at the back, where the west wing faced the high steep cliff in its entirety, did it transition into an outer cloister enclosed by thick concrete baluster, which protected it from falling into the sea invaded by rocks protruding above the water at this point. On the inside, meanwhile, the west wing was tightly boarded up to ensure that no one could get out from inside the back of the orphanage.

The girl nimbly walked along the retaining wall, which stretched about two feet high, without being pushed off by the vicious gale. It was not far to the terrace above the cliff, as the noise of the rough sea carried louder and louder. What was left for her to negotiate was the Clock Tower, the walls of which had to be traversed by means of hooks hammered into it like the rungs of a ladder. Arya nimbly made her way up this path too, and as she jumped down with both feet onto the wide concrete balcony, a branching lightning bolt ran through the sky followed by a mighty thunderclap. The sea below even boiled as if someone had put a giant heater in it. The smudge on the horizon seemed to move in thousands of speckles, like swarming vermin. Arya strained her gaze. The aurora formed the shape of a wide scaly eyebrow with the outline of a reptile eye beneath it. It felt like the pupil, narrowed at its centre, was moving and looking out for something. Arya did not know if this was a weather-induced illusion or if she was really seeing the great brooding eye of some creature in the sky.

Suddenly, the rain grew heavier and the lightning flashed more and more swarmingly from the black clouds. The heavy pounding rain smeared her painfully not allowing her to open her eyes. Suddenly, a narrow bolt of lightning struck one of the concrete baluster and split it into pieces. A breach was created. Arya jumped away from it and looked out to sea in horror. Amidst the roar of the water, a huge dark mass of water was approaching the cliff. The roiling sea was rushing it forward. Its crest reached the barbican of the left wing and doused the windows with salty foam. The receding water washed Arya off the wall and almost dragged her behind into the sea's defiance through the hole created in the concrete railing. Arya grabbed onto one of the balusters with both hands and half her body dangled over the cliff. The rain was beating down harder and harder and she barely pulled herself up a few centimetres immediately slipping back down. She closed her eyes, not wanting to think about the sharp rocks bristling away at the surf zone. A moment later, another wave whipped over the cliff. Arya was sickened by the retreating water and realised that she would die if she didn't move from here. Anger at her own powerlessness gave her strength. She clenched her hands on the concrete baluster so tightly she could make holes in the concrete with her fingertips. 

For a moment she listened to the roar of the sea. She did not hear the wave approaching. With all her strength breaking her nails on the concrete, she pulled herself up clasping her feet, but the dripping rainwater set her back every now and then so she was already tearing off her soles scraping her feet on the concrete. The effort paid off. She pulled herself up onto her elbows. She turned onto her back and grabbed the concrete railing. She pulled herself up and away from the breach. The next wave was not far away so with lightning speed she ran to the Clock Tower and back to the courtyard by the same route she had taken to get here.

She was already about to descend the clematis when she heard the loud thud of horses' hooves. Some carriage rushed towards the orphanage. Arya lay flat on top of the wall. The carriage rolled into the cobbled courtyard. The weather was raging. It looked like the storm would stop here for the night. A loud wheezing whirlwind swayed the lamps at the entrance gate and atrium door more and more viciously. They creaked shrilly at the same time, and the wind- and rain-swept flames inside them even fought for life, stubbornly resisting these gusts. A thick grey curtain of heavy large raindrops passed from left to right like a curtain and shattered with a bang on the cobbles. The coachman, who had jumped down to open the door, was hit by this wall of water and fell over onto his back and struggled to get up, catching hold of more wooden spokes in the carriage wheels. A bolt of lightning, branching into hundreds of threads, flashed in the distance. Arya immediately looked there. With that huge bolt of lightning, the mysterious sign in the sky disappeared, and there was no trace of the sudden aurora.

Someone immediately crawled out of the carriage. By her height and nervous movements, Arya recognised Sister Forsyth. It seemed that someone from the harbour had ridden out to meet her, seeing the approaching storm, and ordered her to collect the children the next day. Sister Lemoine stood at the large front door with a long gas lamp. 

Arya lay on the wall soaked to the last hair. The One Ear had managed to crawl between the clematis shoots and was sitting there like a thrush in a bloomed nest. The coachman hurriedly unhitched the horses from the carriage and led them round the back to a small stable. Sister Forsyth pushed hard by the sudden impact of the rainy wall, hiding her face from the pelting spray, inadvertently struck Sister Lemoine on the chin with her elbow. The latter dropped her lamp and caught herself in the face. Twilight fell under the main entrance, as only one lamp to the left of the heavy oak door was already flickering. 

Suddenly, amidst the thunderous murmurs, whistling winds and the heavy hum of the rain, some disturbing wailing seemed to be heard. It was as if someone had gotten lost in the dense woods surrounding Cove Bay tightly and had been taken by surprise by this violent storm. Arya turned her head to the cobbled highroad winding from the orphanage's entrance gate into the dark woods on either side of it. She squinted hard to see anything. It wasn't quite clear whether it was the wail of a human or some injured animal. However, all that could be seen against the dark blue sky were the crowns of trees tossed mercilessly by the wind in all directions. The leaves rustled like mad and the branches snapped and crackled almost as loudly as the rain beating down in thick drops. Arya listened to where the wailing was coming from, but suddenly it fell silent. The inked darkness obscured the world completely. She raised her head higher but only impenetrable darkness shrouded everything beyond the entrance gate. Suddenly, lightning descended from the sky and struck the sea somewhere in the distance. The flash momentarily lit up the world with a white glow. Arya shuddered. For that brief moment of lightning strike, she saw a figure standing motionless on the cobbled road. It seemed to her that it was standing there looking in the direction of the orphanage.

After a moment, it thundered powerfully and almost immediately afterwards, another bolt of lightning came out of the jumbled black clouds. This one, however, did not strike the sea, but shattered one of the lamps at the gate with a bang and shattered in the cobbled courtyard barely a dozen inches from Sister Forsyth and Sister Lemoine. That flash, however, gave some light again and Arya was horrified to find that a ghostly figure was running towards the orphanage. It was barely a few dozen metres from the gate. The girl screamed loudly and, without thinking much, slid down the wall, wasting no time in climbing down the vines. She bruised both knees, her nose and forehead. However, the pain escaped immediately when she remembered the galloping night ghoul. She got up and ran towards Sister Forsyth with a scream. She reached her like a shipwrecked raft and gripped her habit tightly.

"What on earth are you doing outside again!" yelled Sister Lemoine. "I think you were supposed to be looking for candles or something!"

"There's someone out there!" cried Arya pointing to the entrance gate of the orphanage clinging tightly to Sister Forsyth's back.

"Again! Are you seeing things today or what!" snapped Sister Lemoine at the girl.

"It's true! You have to believe me! Someone came out of the forest and is running to the gate!" 

"You're out of your mind! Get back inside! Now! Where's the coachman? " Sister Lemoine ignored her and asked Sister Forsyth.

The latter, however, remained silent and stared with big eyes at something in front of her. Sister Lemoine wandered her eyes to the same place. Someone was standing under the second heavily flickering lamp at the entrance gate. The lamp gave such a faint light that the figure standing there was very indistinct. Sister Lemoine covered her forehead to keep the rain from hitting her eyes and squinted her eyelids. From a distance and in the semi-darkness of the barely flickering lamp, it looked like someone of medium height. As if slightly hunched over and with his head lowered. The dark colours blended together so that it could be assumed to be a woman with long dark hair and wearing black or very dark clothing. The figure stood still as if it didn't know how it got here or as if it had suddenly fallen asleep standing up. Then a coachman, drenched no less than them, suddenly emerged from behind the left wing, and veritable water cascades were falling from the brim of his hat. All three of them jumped up in fear at the sight of him. The man was surprised, as he had been seen just a few minutes earlier. However, when he caught sight of the intruder at the gate out of the corner of his eye, he clutched his chest and cried out:

"Good heavens! What is going on here! Who is that!"

"We'd like to know too." said Sister Lemoine without taking her eyes off the motionless figure.

"Is it an apparition?" asked the coachman. "There are all sorts of stories about Cove, but I've always taken night-time ghosts for fairy tales."

"Oh, give it a rest! " Sister Forsyth said ittitably. "Can't you see it's just some traveller or a local who's wandered too far into the woods and thickets of the bay! Maybe someone who is ill, or perhaps the storm struck this person with a lightning and now he does not know what is happening to her!"

"Don't get too close! It could be some miscreant! " warned the coachman. "Or worse, some witch! Don't you know that in five days' time there's another witchcraft trial in Edinburgh! It must have escaped the inquisitors! If Judge Spall finds out we'll be in massive trouble!"

"Don't scare us! The only miscreant in this town is actually Spall and his manhunts!" Sister Forsyth tried to keep her cool and was about to move towards the strange figure when it herself suddenly came to her senses. 

The intruder moved slowly towards them, further hunched over and with his head lowered. The figure looked completely lost, bewildered and unaware of what it was doing, but it did not inspire any sense of ill intent. Arya, seeing the unsteady gait, as frightening as it was to run in the darkness, finally stepped out from behind the Sister Forsyth's back and, like the other three, watched the approaching figure closely. When she stood less than thirty inches in front of them they held their breath. The figure slowly and with difficulty lifted its head then suddenly fell. Sister Forsyth pushed Arya aside and jerked the large handle of the orphanage's massive door with all her strength. The door gave way immediately, but after a moment it almost closed with a bang dragging her behind. Unable to resist the pressure of the wind, she fought as hard as she could to keep them from closing completely. When they swung open ten inches wide Arya immediately squeezed into the gap and pushed towards Sister Forsyth as they opened outwards. With a joint effort, they opened the reluctant door, and Sister Lemoine and the coachman went inside with the unconscious intruder holding her under her arms. In the orphanage's spacious atrium, in addition to a small library annex on the right intended for those waiting here, on the other side stood a small coffee table with two decanters of water and two glasses, an old fireplace laden with various trinkets, a pendulum clock, a clumsy oak wardrobe with bedding, sheets and towels for the orphanage staff quarters on the ground floor, and an oblong couch. This is where the unconscious newcomer was laid. The coachman, on Sister Forsyth's instructions, immediately set about lighting the fire, Sister Lemoine reached into the oak wardrobe in search of towels and something to cover herself with, and Sister Forsyth gently tried to uncover the intruder's face, which was covered with frayed tangles pretending to be hair as if it had not been combed for months and someone had torn out whole locks of tousled, neglected locks in many places. Arya's eyes widened as she wondered who could have arrived here on foot in such a dreadful storm. As the coachman had said, many strange tales surrounded Cove Bay, and because of them, no one from the town ventured there unless they truly had to. The orphanage was visited only by local farmers, from whom Sister Forsyth procured food supplies, the town doctor when the children fell ill, and occasionally the mayor, whenever new orphans arrived and the nuns faced financial difficulties. And they all came as early as possible, for once night fell, the human imagination knew no bounds. Yet those who had never set foot in this place told the most chilling stories—whispering that at night, from the thawing bogs and sunken hollows of the dark woods, the worst kind of fiends would creep forth; that people vanished without a trace, melting away like mist; and that the forests of the bay were eerily empty, for some unknown force had wiped out all living creatures there.

Arya tried to catch a glimpse of the newcomer, but suddenly, Sister Lemoine's broad figure blocked her entire view. The nun handed Sister Forsyth a towel, and together they attempted to warm up the stranger.

"She must have been through a lot. She looks ill. What was this old woman doing here at night?"

"How on earth did she manage to run?"

"And what if she really is an escapee, and Spall brings the entire Inquisition down upon us?!"

"He won't come here. Not even if he had irrefutable proof that something sinister lurks in this place. He's only brave in his headquarters in town. Anywhere else, he's just a coward."

Sister Forsyth and Sister Lemoine whispered between themselves. But Arya heard every word. So the stranger was an old woman.

"Lovely and warm! Oh, how delightful!" said the coachman, rubbing his hands together over the fire.

Everyone seemed to have forgotten about Arya, too preoccupied with helping the newly arrived woman. The nuns got up and simultaneously walked over to the oak wardrobe, searching for at least one blanket. Arya stepped closer and looked at the figure lying on the couch. It was indeed an elderly woman, terribly emaciated, her wax-coloured skin stretched over sharp bones. Her tangled hair was matted in places, some strands missing altogether—either torn out or accidentally cut. Her face was lined with deep wrinkles and age spots, and bruises marked the left side of her jaw and her partially exposed arms. Her clothes were worn and unwashed for weeks, torn and tattered, as if she had been kept in them for a long time. Just then, Sister Lemoine appeared before her once again, pushing her aside. She wrapped the woman in a thick grey blanket, then went straight to the fireplace, where she sat down, shivering and chattering her teeth from the cold. The woman had fallen into a deep sleep, so deep that not even Sister Lemoine's shivering could wake her. Suddenly, however, from beneath the blanket, her lifeless right hand slipped out. Arya jumped in fright, and as she backed away, she bumped into the coffee table, sending everything on it crashing to the floor with a loud smash.

"As always! Wherever you go, something always gets broken!" Sister Forsyth cried out in frustration, turning away from the wardrobe.

Arya ignored her spiteful remark and narrowed her eyes as she stepped closer. There was something on the inside of the woman's wrist. She was just about to grab her hand and examine the strange mark when, all of a sudden, the lifeless limb seized her first. Arya's eyes widened, and she froze in place under the weight of the woman's black stare. Her gaze overflowed with madness, laced with sheer panic. Her bony fingers tightened around the girl's wrist, their grip growing ever stronger. The nuns rushed forward to prise her fingers apart, and soon the coachman joined in. Only then she did finally let go of Arya. The girl unfastened her cuff and examined her arm. Five deep indentations from the woman's fingers marked her forearm, and it was certain that by morning, they would blossom into dark bruises. The woman, meanwhile, had once again lost all strength and collapsed into unconsciousness. Sister Forsyth grabbed her hand and swiftly tucked it under the blanket, wrapping her up like a rolled pastry so that it wouldn't slip out again. Then she snatched Arya firmly by the wide strap of her black dress and shoved her backwards, as far away from the sleeping woman as possible.

"Why so curious, eh? Haven't you had your fill of mischief for one day? You've caused quite the disturbance in the kitchen! You shall have ample time to reflect on your actions—and on how you intend to atone for them!" the nun intoned, her voice like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

"You shall have ample time to reflect on your actions—and on how you intend to atone for them!". Yes. That could mean only one thing. The old storeroom. There was no slipping away now. Not even One-Ear would be able to come to her aid this time. Arya stared at Sister Forsyth in silence, though not out of defiance—no, that was impossible. Of all the nuns, the Mother Superior alone commanded an unspoken, immutable reverence. Her face, hollow-cheeked, cold as stone, her skin the colour of faded parchment, was as unmoving as a death mask. It had never known the warmth of a smile. There was something about her—an invisible weight, pressing upon the soul, quelling all thoughts of rebellion. Arya knew better than to let even a flicker of insolence touch her tongue. Without another word, Sister Forsyth's fingers closed around Arya's arm like an iron manacle. She did not hesitate—she dragged the girl away, her heavy steps echoing against the concrete floor as they ascended to the second floor, towards the library. Arya did not make a sound. Even the shadows seemed to hold their breath.

The old storeroom was a large, disused chamber, sharing a wall with the orphanage library. It was a place where all things unwanted were left to gather dust, their fate sealed either by fire or by charity. To Arya, however, it was a treasure trove. The first time she had been locked in there, she had wept and raged for nearly an hour. But in time, she had learned to find a reason to smile, even in the most inescapable of circumstances. Eventually, One-Ear became one of those reasons. He always knew when to appear and kept her company until her punishment was over. Long ago, the storeroom had ceased to be a place of penance and had instead become one of her last havens of freedom. Sister Forsyth shoved her inside, drenched to the bone and racked with hunger, caring little whether she had a dry uniform to change into. She left nothing but a pitcher of water by the door, then turned the key in the lock, leaving Arya alone in the dark.

The damp clothes did not trouble her—Arya, no matter what mischief she got up to, never fell ill. Sister Forsyth knew well that a night in soaking garments would not bring her a fever or sickness. One of the most unsettling things about Arya, aside from the dark aura that seemed to surround her, was her unnatural resilience. Over time, it began to trouble the nuns as much as her peculiar ability to scorch objects and fabric with her bare hands. She was immune to childhood illnesses. She had never had chickenpox, mumps, or rubella. Scarlet fever had passed her by, as had lice, tonsillitis, and even the most persistent of winter chills. Sitting beside a sick child in class, she would remain untouched—never catching a cough, a cold, or even the slightest hoarseness in her throat.

Arya pressed herself against the window. The storm was quieting. The wind had laid itself to sleep, and the heavy clouds had begun to part, revealing the grey-stained surf zone over which a thick blanket of fog suddenly descended in a wide, smothering wave. The sea disappeared beneath it, and the orphanage seemed to hover among the clouds. It was just past six o'clock. Arya heard the familiar murmur of voices filling the corridor once more. Everyone was making their way to the refectory on the ground floor for supper. She pressed her head against the door and listened. When the murmur faded, she slumped onto the floor and fell asleep.

At midnight, she was woken once more by a sharp pain in her forearm. Her skin prickled and crawled, as though something were writhing beneath it. She barely resisted the urge to scratch, knowing that by morning, she must leave no trace—no reason for Sister Lemoine to grow suspicious. Arya had long understood that the less the sisters knew about her, the better they slept. No one could explain what was happening to her. No one even tried. They sought only to suppress it, to stifle it, as if it were a disease. But punishment didn't change anything. Instead, she had become a pariah, a misfit, shunned and mocked by the other children. And whenever she tried to defend herself against their cruelty, she was punished again. And so the vicious cycle of her existence within St. Lazarus continued, endlessly turning upon itself.

It was only the old storeroom that became her refuge—a place where she had woven a world of her own, a world without loneliness. A world where friendship was true, love was unwavering, battles were fought for noble causes, and laughter was real. That world was the realm of fairy tales and fantasy, which she had discovered the very first time she was locked away in this place. Behind the heavy wooden doors, their handle tarnished with age, lay a gloomy, oppressive chamber, where time itself seemed to have halted centuries ago. The storeroom was as large as a small hall, yet it felt cramped and stifling beneath the towering piles of discarded belongings, each one drowning beneath a thick, boot-sole layer of dust. From floor to ceiling, along the damp walls, stood tall, lopsided racks, crammed with yellowed books, chipped kitchenware, shattered lamps, faded paintings, cracked inkwells, and rusting tools. Many bore the stains of ink that had dried into dark blotches long, long time ago. Beneath her feet, the rotting wooden floorboards creaked, riddled with holes and deep grooves. In the corners of the room, rotting wooden chests stood stacked upon one another, some thrown open to reveal mouldering scraps of cloth, long since abandoned to decay. Above it all, hanging from the cracked concrete ceiling, loomed an enormous, rusted chandelier, stripped of its candles. Its curved arms sagged lifelessly towards the floor, weighed down by rust and thick, glistening cobwebs. With every stir of the air, it let out a soft, spectral creak. The air itself was thick with the scent of damp, mildew, and old wood, and through the tall, draughty window, a frigid breeze crept in, making the countless cobwebs quiver and dance in the dimness. It was cold. Dark. Silent. That night, One-Ear had come to her aid, leading her to a box filled with candles and matches—left there in great stacks, should the nuns ever require them for their late-night reading in the library. A flicker of light had breathed a sliver of life into the forgotten gloom. And it had made searching the room far easier. It was then, amidst the dust and decay, that she had found a treasure—a battered old copy of the Brothers Grimm's fairy tales. And that was how she had fallen hopelessly in love with Cinderella. Many a night, instead of sleeping in her own bed, she had sat here, deep in the shadows, re-enacting Cinderella's tale with One-Ear as her only audience.

For One-Ear, a long-time resident of this forsaken place, knew its passages and hidden ways better than anyone—and he was always eager to share his knowledge with Arya. And so, once again, they set about passing the time in their favourite way. The rat busied himself gnawing at the ornaments on the paintings dumped in the storeroom, shredding them into fine flakes—fairy dust, as Arya called it, which she scattered through the air while reenacting the scene of Cinderella's transformation at the hands of her fairy godmother. A thick-handled, battered old soup ladle, its bowl long broken away, served as her wand—a crude, ugly thing, nothing like the one Cinderella's godmother had wielded. So One-Ear had helped, carving tiny clover leaves into its surface, giving it a semblance of life. Buried deep beneath the clutter, one of the old trunks held Arya's most treasured secrets. Inside, she kept her book of Grimm's fairy tales, her wand, her candles, her matches, her magic dust—and one of her uniforms, which she transformed into a ball gown whenever she managed to steal a handful of colourful threads, buttons, or ribbons from the common room during Sister Bloom's crochet lessons.

And so the night passed, carrying her away into the enchanted world of the Brothers Grimm. In the corners of the room, short, sputtering candles flickered feebly, casting trembling shadows upon the walls. Arya, clad in her ball gown, wielded her ladle-wand, casting spells upon everything around her. She imagined the old, shattered lamps transforming into dazzling crystal chandeliers, the dust-laden bookshelves stretching into towering ballroom columns. In her mind's eye, she stood in gleaming glass slippers, summoned to dance by a handsome prince. The old, grey, groaning floorboards melted away, replaced by shimmering white marble, and One-Ear, like the mice in the tale, was changed with a single spell into a fine coachman, clad in a splendid livery. Even the ugly, decrepit chest at the back of the room became a shimmering silver carriage. She closed her eyes and saw it all so clearly, the storeroom dissolving into Cinderella's palace. Arya was so lost in the dream that she forgot the passage of time. The inky darkness began to pale. Dawn was approaching.

"Well, One-Ear. Dawn is breaking, but let's pretend the clock has struck midnight—we must flee!" she said to the rat, laughing innocently.

One-Ear rubbed his tiny paws together and let out a squeak. He understood far more than one might think.

"You must take me home," she said with a warm smile, aiming her gnawed ladle-stick at him. "Hocus pocus, swift and bright, One-Ear turns a coach tonight!"

Suddenly, from that useless twig, a furious violet spark erupted, shooting straight into a splinter jutting from the wooden floorboards. The rat, startled by the strike of light, tumbled onto his back, kicking his paws wildly in the air. Then, in a flash, he sprang up and darted behind the bookshelf, vanishing among the old cookbooks and herbal manuscripts.

Arya froze, her gaze fixed on the splintering wood, where a dark tendril of energy coiled and slithered—and before her eyes, the decayed sliver of timber transformed into a lush, green leaf. At once, she dropped the ladle-stick, leaping back several steps. She had no idea what had just happened. For years, she had played here, casting spells with her makeshift wand, and never had it betrayed her like this. What had changed tonight? A chill ran down her spine. Then, without warning, a sharp, searing pain tore through her forearm. She clutched at it as darkness swallowed her vision—and before she could utter a word, she collapsed, unconscious, into the shadowed corner of the room.