The Library at Hellebore

Day Two

I watched as Minji, enveloped now in Ford’s carcass, walked into the corridor and the gloom, horror fluttering in my chest, like a dying sparrow beating itself against the glass of a window.

I felt like a guitar string wound too tight, like a garrote tensed for use, or a hare in its burrow, knowing there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

My head hurt, my heart too. I’d crawled so far past fear and exhaustion, the world seemed differently luminated: the colors too saturated, the light cold and tinged with blues.

And Gracelynn’s song was ebbing, slowing, dying.

Half live if Rowan dies.

As if on cue, I heard him scream.