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Jane dreams again. There's a flickering light, now, dappling the floor of her bedroom as if it was the ocean floor. It strikes her that the walls are no longer there, not the plain white walls decorated with pictures, but instead rocky cliffs, and on them grow kelp and bladderwrack, swaying in the water. The tide grows higher, pulling, and the light fades as the water rises higher and higher, the ceiling no longer there.
At the foot of the rocks, there is a little passage, with a sandy floor, and she thinks she recognises it, but the memory evades her. That's when she notices that there's a little length of fishing twine tied around her wrist, and she knows at the end is a secret, a secret that she should never have forgotten, not ever, because... but no, that memory, too, evades her. Her mind feels like it is filled with muddy water, and all she can do is crouch down and crawl along the tunnel, sand and rock and hawthorn scratching at her knees and back. The water is heavy in her lungs, weighing her down. A glint of silver in her mind tells her that the secret is at the end of the passage, her secret, hers, and it will all be hers, all beneath the sea.
A litter further along, the tunnel slants uphill. The sand isn't as coarse here, it's softer and easier on the palms of her hands, as far as sand can be, and the roof is a little higher, so that her back no longer scrapes against it. Oh, there's a little stub of a candle, dropped in the water and left behind. Jane, shoving a few hawthorne leaves out of her eyes with a hand, wonders who might have come this way, and if they were looking for her secret; her question is answered by the body she finds, face down in the sand.
The body's not important, though, that's not her secret; her secret is all that matters. It is important that she find it. The pathway stops suddenly, and there is only a little hole beneath a great boulder, and it blocks the way to her secret. Hawthorn fingers reach down through the gap, and she reaches for her secret, knowing it is there. Her secret, her own. Out she pulls the body, and in the hands of her drowned brother is her secret, and she'll never let it go.
Jane Greenwitch recoils sharply in her sleep, curling up likeachild under the bedclothes, tears hawthorneleaves streaming down her scratched face as she cries brokenly for hersecret her brothers.
At the foot of the rocks, there is a little passage, with a sandy floor, and she thinks she recognises it, but the memory evades her. That's when she notices that there's a little length of fishing twine tied around her wrist, and she knows at the end is a secret, a secret that she should never have forgotten, not ever, because... but no, that memory, too, evades her. Her mind feels like it is filled with muddy water, and all she can do is crouch down and crawl along the tunnel, sand and rock and hawthorn scratching at her knees and back. The water is heavy in her lungs, weighing her down. A glint of silver in her mind tells her that the secret is at the end of the passage, her secret, hers, and it will all be hers, all beneath the sea.
A litter further along, the tunnel slants uphill. The sand isn't as coarse here, it's softer and easier on the palms of her hands, as far as sand can be, and the roof is a little higher, so that her back no longer scrapes against it. Oh, there's a little stub of a candle, dropped in the water and left behind. Jane, shoving a few hawthorne leaves out of her eyes with a hand, wonders who might have come this way, and if they were looking for her secret; her question is answered by the body she finds, face down in the sand.
The body's not important, though, that's not her secret; her secret is all that matters. It is important that she find it. The pathway stops suddenly, and there is only a little hole beneath a great boulder, and it blocks the way to her secret. Hawthorn fingers reach down through the gap, and she reaches for her secret, knowing it is there. Her secret, her own. Out she pulls the body, and in the hands of her drowned brother is her secret, and she'll never let it go.
Jane Greenwitch recoils sharply in her sleep, curling up likeachild under the bedclothes, tears hawthorneleaves streaming down her scratched face as she cries brokenly for hersecret her brothers.