Lying in her bed, she stares at the dark void of the ceiling and listens as the winter wind rattles against the wooden walls. The gusts whisper with a ghostly voice through the cracks and crevices chewed into the planks by years of weather and wear. Some nights the Crawl Moon's light pries like a silver knife between the creases of the shutters, but tonight, the sky is coal. The stars hide behind a black canvas.
Gloria is motionless. A cairn of moth-eaten coverlets and shedding furs cover her to the chin. In the dim light of a lone candle, her breath rises, a scant vapor, toward the ceiling. This is tonight. This is every night. The taper sags, sputtering out its last hour of fire. Sometimes she allows her eyes to wander toward the dark blots staining the wall above her headboard, wondering how many times she's struck that same spot, how many times she's savaged her knuckles against the wood.
A week. One week since the return of the horned girl. The room was very different with her in it; the room was very different without Ailova occupying the other bed.
Before, she'd never thought to sleep with a knife — her Liam — tucked against her hip.
In the silence and shadows, Gloria lifts her head just enough off the pillow. "Phor," she says, a hoarse summons tossed over toward the other bed. Was the girl sleeping?
"I want you to — to tell me about the curse."