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Fear washed cold and bitter through her body, despite the pain and exhaustion. She didnt want to go down there, to face people from her home, for them to see her like this. Her hair was knotted with a band of leather at the back of her neck. She wore a simple tunic and trousers, all in pale grey and tan. How could a Lady of River Holt look like this? How could she face them and see their expressions? No. Weve got a chance to finish this. We might never get this close again. Thats what I figured. I dont think its a good idea to meet with Wagner. Otherlings. Dakota Dale? [ i_002.jpg] The morning mist clings to the ground, soft as cotton. It drapes a veil upon the face of the clustered mountains which glare down into the cold, black gloom of Wast Water. Only the weakest tawny light bleeds through from the cold, vein-blue firmament behind the clouds. It puddles into the shadows and scars of Great Gable; of Kirk Fell and Yewbarrow, of Scafell Pike and Lingmell: casting tiny iridescent flecks of yellow and lilac into thick pelts of green and grey and dirty gold. Arent children supposed to believe in stories? Ylandra asked, pacing now, impatient. I closed my eyes.I was home. It was a Saturday, and Dad wanted me to go fishing with him. I rubbed my nose. “I got a call from a woman who said there was a man lurking outside her window and she was afraid, so I jotted down her address and told Dad Id be back in an hour or so. I looked at Max and frowned. “I called you, but you didnt answer, so I left a message.” Australian Shadows Award finalist D. I. Russell has been published since 2003 and featured in publications such as Dead on Arrival 2 and 3, Pseudopod, and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine. He was also the former vice-president of the Australian Horror Writers' Association and was a special guest editor of Midnight Echo. She couldnt be here. She was another ghost, but not here to help him as Anala had been. No. Ylandra would never help him. It wasnt in her nature. Shed see even the need for help as a weakness. Were you born here? Are you two coppers or something? asks Violet, looking from one to the other. Then she grins. Do you smoke? Ive only got a few cigs left? Do you know anybody who might pop to the shop for us? Ill share if you do. She sees a shape, moving towards her through the trees. A round, motherly shape. She reaches down and the action makes her stomach heave. She throws up onto the forest floor; the bitter drink and the green liquor spattering into the forest floor. She scrabbles in the mulch. Her hands close on something hard and sharp– a twisted tent peg, rusted and bent. She clutches it like a blade. Nothing scared him. Especially not her. All around was chaos. Shouts and panic, people tearing everywhere. Cowering in the pavilion, Naul whined and tried to find Jeren. But she wasnt there. Nowhere to be seen, her scent fading after such a long time. Elayne staggered in, bleeding from a dozen wounds, shouting orders to those who followed her. Brightlings Dale was nothing but a trap, cunningly laid, designed with Jeren specifically in mind. Brilliant, devious—either the Enchassa or Gilliad had been inspired. Or worse still, together they went beyond simple cunning. A cloak lay across the bed, a silver-grey fur edged with River Holt blue. Jerens eyes grew wide and her stomach twisted in on itself. She knew that soft fur, the silken texture. It was Analas pelt. He opened the door to the Velvet Inn for her and placed a hand gently on her back.You could marry me and change me into the man you want me to be. She reached forward and pressed a hand against the canvas.* * *.