Chapter 2
A little after nine, Gwen let herself out of the kitchen and sat on the back step above her backyard. The snowy slope before
her fell steeply away into brambles and a strew of rocks. Somewhere at the bottom of the drop, cold water gurgled in a brook.
Gwen found she wanted to be outside most of the time now, wanted to taste the air. Wanted to put her hands in the snow, feel
it burning her bare skin. She wanted to feel it all—touch it all—while she still could. Seven weeks to live.
She spent thirty minutes crafting three messages for Robin in her Notes app. Did Colin have her screen mirrored somehow, so
he could see every single thing she did? Or did he only see her texts, her emails? It didn’t really matter. She was writing
them for his consumption as much as Robin’s. She wanted him to see them.
Finally, she was done. She cut and pasted and sent.
Robin. I took your suspicions to Donna McBride and she brought Colin and me together for a sit-down. I think now that the
creature you met, the creature going by the name of Schrodinger, lied to you, hoping to turn Colin and me against each other.
Schrodinger was what I guess you would call a troll, just like in the fairy tales. A thing like that delights in creating
heartache and suspicion, in sowing division.
You were right to bring your story to me, but I want you to put your concerns about Colin Wren out of your mind. Arthur and
I had a private phrase, a cutsie pie thing we used to say to each other, to let each other know all was well. It was the last
thing Arthur said to Colin down in the hole. He never would have shared that with his killer—and for me that settles the question.
You’ve learned that my friends and I brought something terrible into this world, years ago.
It haunts us still. You’ve almost died twice because of your proximity to us .
. . once in the skies over the North Atlantic, once by the River Camel.
Enough. While I think the world of you, I’m going to ask you to stop communicating with me .
. . and Allie . . . and Donna . . . and Colin.
Please. If you keep sticking your nose in, the third time might be the charm, and I don’t want that on my conscience.
Go back to your life. I can’t deal with any more of your questions—the answers would only endanger you.
So leave off. Please respect my request for distance.
I ask this out of love, not resentment .
. . but if you don’t abide my wishes, resentment will come.
I will be muting your replies. Be well. Gwen.
She hit send and send and send again, then lowered the phone and held it against her leg. She turned her face to the sky just
in time to be kissed by a falling snowflake.
Her phone pinged with a text. She had not yet muted Robin’s replies and looked to see what she had said, surprised she would
reply at this hour—it had to be the early a.m. in London.
Only the message wasn’t from Robin, but Colin.
Well done. You just saved Robin Fellows’s life.
Gwen put her phone down again. Later, when she looked back at the message from Colin, it was gone, as if she had imagined
it. She didn’t know he could do that—make a text disappear. King Sorrow was a dragon, but Colin was some sort of dark sorcerer,
and she couldn’t, for the life of her, say which of them was the more frightening.