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Violet looks away from the water and into the unreadable face of a woman who appears to be modelled after a fertility icon: an earth mother baked in clay. Shes small and smooth-edged, a sketch composed entirely ovals and curves and circles. Shes dressed in a suede bolero jacket, unzipped, which exposes an inflatable mattress of belly-fat beneath her cream, cable-knit jumper. Her glasses are the same slightly ovoid shape as the face on which they sit – poorly maintained brown hair piled atop her head like shaving foam upon a palm. Theres something about her face that makes Violet think of goblins. Her eyes are sunken and her cheeks seem to stick out too far as she talks, making her glasses twitch up and down almost of their own volition. But at least when he did talk to her his tone was kinder. Sometimes he smiled and she loved to see him then, his eyes bright with joy, transforming his sombre expression to something so handsome that it stopped her breath. His hands framed her face and he kissed her again, cradling her head, holding her to him. She didnt fight this time, but gave herself up to the kiss, drinking it down. Her hands roamed up his arms, across his chest and when they finally fell onto the bed together, she lost herself in him, her husband, her mate who could use the most tender of touches to make her whole again. She leaned into his warm strength.I need to see. Her voice came out as a hoarse croak. Her screams, it seemed, had been real. Look, it wasnt my business, my husbands right, but I couldnt help poking around. I mean, over a few Proseccos she’d given me what she knew, and that wasn’t much. Whatever he gave them, it’s turned their memories to mush about what happened. Give it a rest, he growls, feebly. He squints in the general direction of the bird that has been driving him to distraction with its song. He cant see the little bastard. We never say that name, comes a voice from the other side of the bed. She blinks, rapidly, taken by surprise. She barely notices the surroundings into which she wakes – propped up on comfortable pillows in a mahogany bed; plush patterned paper clinging redly to walls decorated in Art Deco mirrors and George Stubbs prints. "If any man has a stubborn and rebellious son who will not obey his father or his mother, and when they chastise him, he will not even listen to them, then his father and mother shall seize him, and bring him out to the elders of his city at the gateway of his hometown. They shall say to the elders of his city, 'This son of ours is stubborn and rebellious, he will not obey us, he is a glutton and a drunkard.' Then all the men of his city shall stone him to death; so you shall remove the evil from your midst, and all Israel will hear of it and fear. Remind me, says Rowan, fingers poised. Copycats. Salyer was a media favorite. I crossed my legs, refusing to fall for his intimidation tactics. There are always a few followers—copycat killers that spring up after someone like him is captured or killed. The standard this year has been very high, continued Jones, which I am sure will be reflected in the grades awarded at the close of term. Unfortunately for this lot behind me, that means a few weeks of waiting. Dont worry, guys and girls, it will fly by.Trust me. An old woman looked back at her, old but beautiful, her skin so pale as to be almost translucent, her hair as white as his, tightly braided. She smiled and Shan nuzzled her neck, pressing his lips to the pulse there in a tender and familiar gesture. Then, in the distant future, and now. Her lover, her husband. Her mate. I think Ive been a bit harsher than usual with Catherine recently. Im sorry for that, I think. She doesnt seem troubled by it the way I am. She accepts it all. It was her act of rebellion, a little interlude of partying and acting up and giving the vicar a reason to go out of his mind. I don’t think I can leave it at that. You see, bits have been coming back. You know that feeling when you see something random and it reminds you of a dream you had when you were a child? It’s like that. Suddenly, I’m asking questions of myself. I have a memory of a dark, wet, sparkling place. I can tastethe taste you get after you’ve had a filling – like iron filings and chemicals. More than anything else, I can see the girl I haven’t let myself think about in three decades. Freya. Red hair. White lines on her arms. Older than us. She was there, I know she was. She never said goodbye. Left, like she’d left all the other schools. I’ve started looking for her, Catherine. I know I said I wouldn’t, but I have. I’ve started looking into myself as well. There are pictures there. Not memories, but echoes. Something that comes to me when I sleep. Do you remember the old caretaker? The man in the woods who used to talk to us about oneness and vibrations and journeys between different planes of reality? I’ve been thinking of him a lot. You tell me I shouldn’t hang around with my friends at the farm but they’re good listeners, and they help me find the frequency I lost that day. I know it will come back to me. Eve is worrying about me too. She’s been worrying for 30 years. Do you remember that day I called her Mum by accident? Oh my God I’m still so embarrassed. Shan could feel their laughter crawling across his skin on a thousand spiders legs. 10.16am Someone tore Gracen away from her. Not Shan. It struck her like a bucket of ice-water. It wasnt Shan. There was no wolf. The Seer dropped like a discarded rag at their feel and Jeren, drenched in sweat, tingling all over with raw power, slumped into Indarins arms. I can protect myself. I closed the video and pushed back the chair. You should have shown it to me, Max. What else have you been hiding?.