Cinder sleeps like a mountain, unmoving, full of heat.  Cass blinks at the last embers of the fire, and tries to ignore the exhaustion creeping up her spine.  Sleep has not been kind.  Every time she shuts her eyes, the dream springs forth.  Her mother.  The white light.

Cass shakes herself awake again.

The statue isn’t anything special.  A woman, indistinct, her hand raised in exultation, or reaching for help.  It’s made of a smooth green stone, and when she touches it, the hairs on her arm stand straight up.

She can’t wait to get rid of the fucking thing.


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