Текст книги "The King"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

FORTY-SEVEN

Where was he?

As Sola loitered in Assail’s kitchen, fussing over the few things she’d repacked from upstairs, she kept looking over her shoulder, expecting to find him coming around the corner to try to persuade her to stay.

But he’d already done that, hadn’t he.

In the shower.

Man, for once, memories of being with him didn’t get her juiced. They made her want to cry.

“I no understand why we leave so early,” her grandmother announced as she came up from the basement. “It is not even dawn.”

Her grandmother was dressed in the yellow version of her house frock, but she was ready for the trip, her good shoes on, her matching handbag hanging off her wrist from its fake leather strap. Behind her, Assail’s matched set of guards each had a suitcase—and they did not look happy. Although, come on, they hardly had faces built for the jollies.

“It’s a twenty-three-hour drive, vovó. We need to get started.”

“We are no stopping?”

“No.” She couldn’t take the risk with her grandmother in tow. “You can drive in the middle during the day. You love to drive.”

Her grandmother let out a sound that for anybody else would have been an F-bomb. “We should stay here. Is nice here. I like the kitchen.”

It was not the kitchen the woman was fond of. Hell, her grandmother could cook over a Coleman without blinking an eye—and had.

He’s not Catholic, Sola wanted to say. He’s actually an atheist drug dealer. Soon to be wholesaler—

What if she was pregnant? she wondered. Because she hadn’t taken her pill for two days. Wouldn’t that be …

Nucking futs, as they say.

Shaking herself out of la-la land, Sola zipped the rolling suitcase shut and just stood there.

“Well?” her grandmother taunted. “We go? Or no?”

As if she knew exactly what Sola was waiting for.

Or who, as the case was.

Sola didn’t have enough pride left to try to be cool as she looked around again, searching the entry from the dining area, the archway that was used when you came from upstairs or the office, the shallow hall at the head of the basement steps. All empty. And there were no footsteps coming at a dead run, no thumping from overhead as somebody rushed to pull on a shirt and get to the lower level.

Shower time aside, how could he not see her off …

At that moment, her grandmother took a deep breath and the flat yellow gold cross she always wore around her neck caught the overhead light.

“We go,” Sola heard herself say.

With that, she picked up her suitcase and headed for the back door. Outside, a totally lose-it-in-a-crowd Ford was parked close to the house, the rental agreement in the name of Sola’s emergency identity.

The one nobody in Caldwell knew she had. And in the glove box, there was another set of documents and IDs for her grandmother.

Using the remote, she triggered the locks to disengage, and opened the trunk. Assail’s men, meanwhile, were handling her grandmother with kid gloves, helping her down the stairs, carrying her luggage, and her coat, which she had obviously refused to put on in protest.

As they settled the woman into the passenger seat and her suitcase in the back, Sola searched the rear of the house. Just as before, she expected to see him, maybe running through the main room to get to her before she left. Maybe coming up from the basement and shooting through the mudroom to come out. Maybe skidding around the corner from having been upstairs …

At that moment, something strange happened. Every window in the house had a sudden shimmer to it, the glass panes between the sills and the flat plates of the sliding doors showing a subtle twinkle.

What the—

Shutters, she thought. There were shutters coming across the windows, the subtle movement the kind of thing you’d miss … unless you were looking in at the very second it happened. Afterward? It was as if nothing had changed. All the furniture was still visible, the lights on, normal, normal, normal.

Another of his security tricks, she thought.

Taking her time opening her door, she put one foot in and craned around. The two bodyguards had stood back and crossed their arms.

She wanted to tell them … but no, they didn’t seem like they were interested in carrying a message back to Assail.

They looked downright pissed off now that they’d gotten her grandmother safely into the sedan.

Sola waited for a moment longer, eyes fixed on that open rear door. Through the jambs, she looked at the shoes and the coats in that back hall. So ordinary-looking—well, ordinary for a rich person. But the house wasn’t Middle America anything, and not just because it was probably worth five million. Or ten.

Turning away, she slid behind the wheel, closed herself in, and got a good whiff of lemon air freshener. Under which was the faint stinky haze of cigarette smoke.

“I no know why we have to leave.”

“I know, vovó. I know.”

The tinny-sounding engine jumped to what little life it had and she put the car in reverse. K-turning, she gave that open door one last look.

And then there were no more excuses to linger.

Hitting the gas, she blinked hard as the headlights illuminated the driveway and then the one-lane road that would take them off the peninsula.

He was not going to come after her.

“You make a mistake,” her grandmother said on a huff. “Big mistake.”

But you don’t know the whole story, Sola thought as she came up to a stop sign and hit her directional signal.

What Sola was unaware of, however … was that neither did she.

* * *

Assail watched the departure from the ring of trees behind the rear of his home.

Through the windows of the kitchen, he saw her standing by the table, rifling through a suitcase as if searching for something she was leaving behind.

Out here, my love, he thought. What you have lost is out here.

And then her grandmother made an appearance with the cousins, and it was clear that the female did not approve of the leaving.

Just one more thing to adore about her.

It was also obvious that the cousins were against this. Then again, they had never eaten so well, and they had respect for anyone who would stand up to them.

Not a problem with Marisol’s grandmahmen.

As Assail played witness to his female searching about as if she were waiting for him to present himself, there was a small satisfaction in her sadness. But the overriding imperative was to convince his inner beast to let her choose the path she had.

He could not argue with the self-preservation—just as he could not vow to disengage from his business. He had worked too long and hard to fade into a lifestyle of sedentary nights … even if they were spent with her. Besides, he had the worry that things were not done with the Benloise family yet. Only time would tell if there was another brother out there, or mayhap some cousin with a greedy eye and a heart of vengeance for what had been served unto his blood.

She would be safer without him.

As Marisol put her luggage in the boot of the car, her grandmother was accommodated to the front of the vehicle. And there was another pause. Indeed, as she glanced around, he felt she must have seen him—but no. Her eyes passed o’er him in his shadowed hiding spot.

Into the car. Shutting the door. Starting the engine. Turning about.

Then all there was … were brake lights disappearing down his drive.

The cousins loitered only for a moment. Unlike his female, they knew exactly where he was, but they did not approach. They retreated into the house, leaving the door open for him to use when he could stand the rising sun no longer.

His heart was howling in his chest when he finally stepped free of where he had tucked himself.

Walking across the snow, his body was loose-jointed to the point where he wondered if he would collapse. And his head was spinning ’round and ’round—his intestines as well. The only thing that was solid were his male instincts, which were bloody incessant that he needed to go out to the road in front of her, brace himself before that cheap-ass car, and demand that she turn around and come back home.

Assail forced himself into his house instead.

In the kitchen, the cousins were helping themselves to leftovers specifically cooked for them and left in foil-wrapped servings in the freezer. Their affects were as if someone had died.

“Where are the cell phones?” Assail asked.

“In the office.” Ehric frowned as he peeled a Post-it note off the package. “‘Preheat to three seventy-five.’”

His brother went to the wall ovens and began pushing buttons. “Convection?”

“Doesn’t say.”

“Damn it.”

Under any other circumstances, Assail would have found it impossible to believe that Evale was wasting his meager urge to speak on cooking. But Marisol and her grandmother had changed everything … for the short time they had been here.

Leaving his cousins be, he was not at all surprised they didn’t offer to include him in the repast. After centuries of transient existence, he had a feeling they were going to become hoarders of those foodstuffs.

In the office, he sat behind the desk and regarded the two identical phones before him. Naturally, his brain went to how he’d procured them—and he saw Eduardo first upon the ground and then Ricardo strung up against that torture wall.

Ordering his hands to clasp them, he—

His arms refused to obey the command, and in fact, his body fell back into the chair. As he stared straight ahead at absolutely nothing, it was clear that his motivation had deserted him.

Opening the desk’s center drawer, he took out one of his vials and fired up one nostril and then the other with cocaine.

The tingling rush at least got him sitting up, and a moment later, he did in fact take the phones … and hook them up to his computer.

His focus was artificial, the attention forced, but he knew he was going to have to get used to that.

His heart, black though it was, had left him.

And was on its way to Miami.

FORTY-EIGHT

It was in fact possible, if you ran long enough and hard enough, to make the body feel as if you had been in a fist fight.

As Wrath continued to pound his Nikes into the treadmill, he thought about his last sparring session with Payne.

He had lied to her. Back when he’d finally assumed the throne in a serious way, the brothers and Beth had confronted him with a set of “guidelines” intended to chill him out on the ol’ physical-risk profile. Not exactly a happy convo, and he’d broken the rules at least once that everyone knew about, and a number of times that nobody had caught him at. And after he’d been discovered fighting downtown, he’d agreed anew to put up the daggers but for ceremonial work—and since then, the scent of his shellan’s disappointment had been enough to keep him in line.

Well, that and the fact that he’d lost his remaining eyesight entirely at about that time.

The bunch of them hadn’t been wrong. The King needed to be breathing most of all; taking down slayers in the back of an alley in Caldwell could not be the primary directive anymore.

And no sparring with the brothers, either.

None of them wanted to roll the dice with possibly hurting him.

Except then Payne had presented herself, and though he’d first assumed she was a male, when her true identity had been discovered, he’d been given a pass … precisely because she was a female.

He thought of her sneaking into the males’ locker room and putting that knife to his throat.

He supposed now … he could fight with anyone he liked. And that he owed her an apology.

Reaching down, he increased the treadmill’s speed. This one machine had been retrofitted with hooks on the console and a padded belt that had been made for him. With bungee cords strung between the two, he could go hands off and still keep on the machine, the subtle pulls on his waist telling him where he was in relation to the running surface.

Handy on a night like tonight. Oh, wait … it was daytime, now.

Falling into a faster rhythm, he found that as always, his head had a way of floating above the exertion, as if with his body engaged and working, it was free to drift. Unfortunately, like a helicopter with faulty gauges, it kept ramming into rocky cliffs: his parents, his shellan, the possibility of a future young, all the empty years stretching out before him.

If he only had his eyesight. At least then he could credibly go out and engage with the enemy. But now he was trapped—by his blindness, by his Beth, by the chance that she was with young.

Of course, if she hadn’t been in his life? He would have gone on a killing bender until he died honorably in the field. Although, hell, without her, he probably wouldn’t have bothered doing anything about ascending in the first place.

He knew he should never have tried that fucking crown on his head.

After everything his father had done in such a tragically short time, he should have followed his first instincts and walked the fuck away. The race had been fine going rudderless for a couple of centuries; probably could have kept that shit up indefinitely.

He thought of Ichan. Maybe that SOB was going to discover that modern populations didn’t need kings.

Or more to the point, maybe Xcor and the Bastards were going to learn that lesson.

Whatever.

Wrath went to increase the speed again—and found that he’d tapped the machine out on velocity. Cursing, he resettled into his already breakneck pace, and thought of his father, sitting behind the very desk that he himself could no longer see or use, parchment rolls and ink pots, quill pens and leather-bound volumes covering the carved surface.

He could just picture that male behind it all, sporting a half smile of contentment as he melted wax himself and pressed the royal crested ring into it—

“Wrath!”

“Wha—” Cue the squealing of rubber as he yanked out the safety key and jumped to the side rails. “Beth—?”

“Wrath, oh, my God—”

“Are you okay—”

“Wrath, I’ve got the solution—”

He could not fucking breathe. “About … what?”

“I know what we have to do!”

Wrath frowned as he panted and braced his hands on the rails in the event his jelly legs gave up the ghost and he torpedoed. And yet even through the hypoxia, his female’s scent was strong with purpose and conviction, her natural undertones sharpened so they got through to him clearly.

Grabbing the towel he’d slung over the console, he mopped his face. “Beth, for the love of Christ. Will you please stop—”

“Divorce me.”

In spite of all the exercise-induced suffocation, he stopped breathing. “I’m sorry,” he said roughly. “But I did not hear that.”

“Dissolve our mating. Effective yesterday—when for all intents and purposes you were still King.”

Wrath started shaking his head, all kinds of thoughts jamming up his brain. “I’m not hearing you say that—”

“If you get rid of me, you get rid of the grounds they used. No grounds, no removal. You have the throne and—”

“Are you out of your fucking mind!” he bellowed. “What the fuck are you talking about!”

There was a slight pause. Like she was surprised he wasn’t all into her bright idea.

“Wrath, seriously. This is the way to get the throne back.”

As the bonded male in him started screaming at the top of its lungs, he was an inch from exploding—but he’d already trashed one whole room in the compound. And the brothers would kill him if he smashed up their weight room.

Attempting to keep his voice level, he failed miserably: “No fucking way!”

“It’s just a piece of paper!” she hollered back. “What the hell does it matter?”

“You’re my shellan!”

“It’s all about carrots!”

Annnnnnnnnnd that stopped him dead. Shaking his head to clear it some, he said, “I’m sorry—what?”

Little hard to transition from ending their relationship to root frickin’ vegetables.

“Look, you and I are together because we love each other. A piece of paper one way or another is not going to change us—”

“No, absolutely not—I’m not going to give those assholes the satisfaction of fucking you over—”

“Listen to me.” She grabbed onto his forearm and squeezed. “I want you to calm down and listen to me.”

It was the weirdest thing. As wound up as he was, when she gave him a direct order like that? He followed like a foot soldier.

“Predate the dissolution of marriage—mating—whatever. Don’t give them any rationale, you don’t want to look like it’s reactionary. Then decide whether or not you want to stay King. But that way? It’s not my fault. Right now, like it or not, I’m the reason you’re losing the throne, and I can’t go through the rest of our lives feeling responsible for something like that. It’ll kill me.”

“Sacrificing you is not the way—”

“We’re not sacrificing me in the slightest. I don’t care about being queen. I care about being by your side—and no crown or edict or whatever is going to change that.”

“You could be carrying our offspring right now. Are you saying you want to bring that young into the world a bastard?”

“They wouldn’t be to me. They wouldn’t be to you.”

“But to others…”

“Like who? You telling me Vishous would think the kid’s something less? Tohr? Rhage? Any of the Brothers—their shellans? What about Qhuinn and Blay—Qhuinn’s not mated to Layla. Does that mean you’d look down on that child?”

“This household’s not the ‘others’ I was talking about.”

“So who is, precisely? We never see the glymera—thank God—and I don’t believe I’ve ever met what you guys call a commoner. Well, except for Ehlena and Xhex, I guess. I mean, all these citizens of the race—they never come here, and is that going to change? I don’t think so.” She squeezed his arm again. “Besides, you were worried about putting our kid on the throne? This takes care of that problem, too.”

Wrath broke off from her hold on him and wanted to pace—except he didn’t know the weight room layout well enough not to land on his ass.

He settled for wiping his face again. “I don’t want the throne enough to divorce you. I just don’t. It’s the principle, Beth.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ll divorce you.”

He blinked behind his wraparounds. “Not going to happen. I’m sorry, but I will not do this.”

His leelan’s voice cracked. “I can’t spend the rest of my life thinking it’s my fault. I just can’t.”

“But it isn’t. It honestly isn’t. Look, I just … I gotta let the past go, you know? I can’t hold on to my parents this way. That shit isn’t healthy.” He let his head fall back. “Goddamn, I mean, you’d figure I’d be over it by now. Losing them, that is.”

“I don’t think people ever get past that kind of thing—especially the way it happened to you.”

Flashes came back of his scrawny pretrans self locked in that crawl space, watching through a knothole in the wood as his parents were cut into pieces. It was always the same film reel, the same glints of sword blades and screams of pain and terror … and it always ended the same, with the two most important people in his life up to that point gone, gone, gone.

He wasn’t going to lose Beth. Not even in a figurative way.

“No,” he said with utter finality.

Reaching over, he put his hand on her womb. “I’ve lost my past and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I will not lose my future—even for the throne.”

FORTY-NINE

One of the problems with marriages, matings, whatever … was that when the person you loved laid down a veto? Not much you could do about it.

As Beth stepped out of the weight room with her hellren, she was popped-balloon deflated. Out of arguments, out of plans, she hated where they were, but all the avenues to a better place were obstructed by a “no” she couldn’t get past.

Instead of following him into the showers, she went to the office and sat at the desk, staring at the laptop’s screen saver of bubbles floating around the image of Outlook—

The hot flash came out of nowhere, blasting up through her pelvis and spreading like a brushfire to the tips of her fingers, the soles of her feet, the crown of her head.

“Christ,” she muttered. “I could fry an egg on my chest over here.”

Billowing the collar of the nightgown helped a little, but then the internal oven blast was over as quick as it came, nothing but the cooling sweat on her skin left behind.

Swiping the screen saver off, she watched as Outlook updated itself with a send/receive. The account that was configured on this computer was the general mailbox for the King, and she braced herself for a long lineup of unread e-mails to start appearing at the top of the list.

There was only one.

A tangible representation of the switch in power, she supposed …

Frowning, she sat forward. The subject line read: Heavy Heart. And it was from a male whose name she recognized only because it had been on the list of signatures on that fucking parchment.

Opening the thing, she read it once. Twice. And a third time.

To: Wrath, son of Wrath

From: Abalone, son of Abalone

Date: 04430 12:59:56

Subject: Heavy Heart

My lord, it is with a heavy heart that I greet the future. I was at the meeting of the Council and I executed the Vote of No Confidence, with its antiquated, prejudicial grounds. I am sick for myself and the race over the glymera’s actions of late, but more so over my lack of courage.

A long, long while ago, my father Abalone served your father. Family lore has passed down the story, although its details are not widely known anymore: When a cabal went against your parents, my father took a stance with his King and queen and honored this bloodline of mine for e’ermore in doing so. In return, your father provided the generations of my family with financial freedom and social elevation.

I did not live up to that legacy this night. And I find that I cannot stomach my cowardice.

I do not agree with the actions taken against you—and I believe that others feel the same. I work with a group of commoners to help field their concerns and approach the glymera for appropriate redress. In my dealings with such citizens, it is clear that there are many at the root of the race who remember all the things your father did for them and their families. Although they have never met you, that goodwill extends to you and your family. I know they shall share my sadness—and my worry—as to where we are headed the now.

In recognition of my failure, I have resigned from the Council. I will continue working with the commoners, as they need a champion—and although I am sorely remiss in that role, I must try to do some good in this world or I shan’t be able to e’er sleep again.

I wish I had done more for you. You and your shellan shall be in my thoughts and prayers.

This is all so wrong.

Sincerely, Abalone, son of Abalone

What a lovely guy, Beth thought as she got out of Outlook. And he probably needed to ditch the guilt. Given the aristocracy’s steamroller approach to everything, he hadn’t stood a damn chance.

The glymera had ways of ruining lives that had nothing to do with coffins.

Checking the clock on the wall, she figured Wrath would be along any minute. And then they would … well, she had no clue. Usually at this time, they were heading up to bed, but that didn’t hold any appeal.

Maybe they could switch bedrooms today. She didn’t think she could handle even seeing that bejeweled suite of rooms.

Idly heading over to Internet Explorer, she stared at the Google screen, shaking her head at the I’m feeling lucky line.

Yeah. Right.

God, if only V didn’t hate everything about the Apple company, she could have had an iPhone in her hand and asked Siri what to do.

She so appreciated Wrath standing by their marriage, but jeez …

For absolutely no reason, that scene from The Princess Bride flashed through her mind—the one where they were getting married at the altar in front of that priest.

Meeeewidge, a dweam wifin a dweam—

Beth froze.

Then typed fast and hit that frickin’ lucky button.

What came up was—

“Hey, you ready to head up?”

Beth slowly lifted her eyes to her husband. “I know what we have to do.”

Wrath recoiled like someone had dropped a piano on his foot. And then promptly looked like his head was pounding. “Beth. For the love of fucking God—”

“Do you love me, all of me?”

He let his huge body fall back against the office’s glass door as George curled in for a lie-down—like he expected this to be another long one. “Beth—”

“Well, do you?”

“Yes,” her hellren groaned.

“All of me, human and vampire.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t discriminate one side versus the other, right?”

“No.”

“So it’s like Christmas. I mean, you don’t celebrate the holiday, but because it’s what Butch and I are used to, you, like, let us put up Christmas trees and decorations, and now everyone in the household does the present thing, right?”

“Right,” he muttered.

“And when it comes to the winter solstice, I mean, if you were going to ever do one of those balls, you wouldn’t think it was any more or less important or significant than Christmas, right.”

“Right.” This was spoken in a tone that suggested in his head, he was answering the question, If I put the gun right here, and pulled the trigger, I could get myself out of this misery, right?

“No difference. At all.”

“None. Can we stop now?”

“My beliefs, my customs, just as important as yours, no difference, right?”

“Right.”

“At all.”

“Right.”

She burst up from the computer. “Meet me in the front foyer in two hours. Wear something nice.”

“What—what the fuck are you doing?”

“Something we’d talked about a while ago and never followed through on.”

“Beth, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” She ran for the closet so she could get into the tunnel ahead of him. “Everything.”

“Why aren’t you telling me?”

She hesitated before disappearing. “Because I’m afraid you’ll argue with me. Two hours. The foyer.”

As she bolted out the hidden panel, she heard her hellren cursing, but she didn’t have any time to go into this with her man.

She had to find Lassiter. And John Matthew.

Now.

* * *

Selena experienced her first true lockup that morning.

Sitting at the kitchen table of Rehvenge’s great camp, she was nursing a cup of coffee and a homemade scone when her mind began to agitate over the King’s fate, Trez’s kisses, iAm’s hard stare, her own uncertain future …

Most especially Trez’s kisses.

She hadn’t seen him in public or private since they’d left that bathroom and proceeded downstairs to find his brother in the kitchen.

She was kind of glad.

The unfinished business between them—the sexual unfinished business—was too intense for her right now. When she’d been in the moment, it had all seemed so natural, so predestined even—but with a clear head and wide-open eyes in the aftermath, she wondered what she had been thinking.

The future was coming, and it was going to be hard enough without the pressure of falling in love.

And that was where things were headed with him …

As her brain twisted in her skull, she took a sip of coffee, burned her lip, and in her frustration, decided there simply wasn’t enough sugar in with her caffeine. And she’d put too much of the grinds in the filter. And the water hadn’t been cold enough, so there was a tinny aftertaste.

In reality, the mix was pretty perfect. It was her internal sense of self that she was struggling to get into balance.

But she could do something about the java, as the Brothers called it.

Reaching forward for the little sugar pot, she extended her arm from her shoulder, tilted her torso over her hips, and—

Her body didn’t so much stiffen as freeze in that position—as if all the joints that were engaged had become solid at once.

Terror quadrupled her heart rate, sweat flushing across her face and her chest. And when she went to open her mouth to breathe more deeply, she found that even her jaw was stuck in place—although that may have been the fear.

Abruptly, the silence in the house pressed in on her.

There was nobody else in the cedar-shingled camp. The other Chosen had gone up to the Sanctuary to visit with Amalya, the directrix following Wrath’s dethroning. Rehvenge was down in Caldwell. The doggen who now rotated between this location and the Brotherhood mansion had stayed in town in light of the sad news.

In a frantic calculation, she tried to remember how long it had taken her sisters to be permanently affected.

Not days. Maybe months in terms of Earth time?

Dearest Virgin Scribe … what if this was it?

Focusing all her energy, she tried to unhinge the locked doors of her joints, and got nowhere. Indeed, the only thing that moved were the tears that pooled in her eyes and slipped off her lashes. And it was so utterly bizarre: For all her immobility, she could feel everything. The hot paths down her cheeks. The warmth from overhead that drifted by her temples and the tips of her ears. The cool draft across her soft-soled shoes. The lingering burn on her tongue and the back of her throat.

She even felt the hunger she had been drawn to the kitchen to try to satisfy.

What was she going to do if she didn’t—

The trembling began in her thighs, starting with a twitching and then emanating with greater bandwidth. Her arms were next. Then her shoulders.

As if her body were fighting to get out of its prison, shaking the metaphorical bars that had slammed shut around it.

“Hello?”

The male voice was distant, echoing forth from the lake side of the house, and she attempted to answer. What came out was a weak moan, nothing more—everything was vibrating: from her teeth to her toes, she was rattling to the point of violence—

Just as Trez entered, her body burst free of its invisible confines, her limbs exploding out, banging into things, flapping free. And then she collapsed, her head slamming down onto the lip of the coffee mug, the scone bouncing off its plate, the clattering of the sugar bowl and the thunderous impact of her chest on the table like a bomb going off.

“Selena!”

Trez caught her before she slid onto the floor, his great arms scooping her up and holding her tight as, inside of her body, everything that had been rigid became liquid: She didn’t so much recline in his hold as melt into it. And not because she was aroused.

“What’s going on?” he demanded as he carried her out of the kitchen and laid her on the daybed opposite the foyer fire.

Although she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out. Instead, the details of the dark wood paneling and the river-stone hearth and the stuffed owl on the mantelpiece became hyper-clear, her eyes practically burning from the acuity of her vision.