And wood was brought and gathered round.
. . till smoking tongues licked her feet, a beast unproud, devouring
death as sure as life, and old and young alike.
Mary shuddered, and her eyes opened wide.
Her eyes were open. She was not sleeping, nor dreaming of a dream. And
yet the presence remained. The widow Scott lay breathing evenly,
somewhere in the gloom. But the presence remained.
Not a raging ghost, not the white-shrouded form of a woman, but an
invisible essence, unimagined: the echo, the afterglow, the spirit of
Margaret MacCain. It did not speak to her, but only watched, knowing
her thoughts, in some way bound to earth until the drama was played
out. Or the dream was gone.
Mary lay still, afraid but understanding. It was not a thing that
needed to be taught; it simply was. And she knew it in the depths of
her being. And the darkness of Night was infinitely deeper than the
darkness of the mind. Fear could not match the hard truth of it.
Thunder rolled beyond the walls in a glowering storm, as spiders
crawled freely through the window.
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