“In a dark, quiet corner of the world, a ghost is dying.

She has no name, or origin. No known goal or master.

If it weren’t for the pooling blood, greedily pulled from her veins by the mossy earth, this man before her would not even know she was truly real.”

- A letter from the Earl of Gealhollow to King Aldric of Kalledor

The Ghost

The smell of wet timber was heavy in the air that morning, and a dense fog covered the expanse of the wood. Pines rose up to the sky in a show of power and strength, and the moss of the forest floor only partially dulled the sound of the horses and their handlers making their way down the worn path.

The Earl, Teren Gealhollow, stopped once to take a deep breath of fresh air, enjoying the stillness of early day. His flintlock musket laid to rest on his shoulder and one hand steady on his steed’s reigns, he relished in the peace that the forest emanated. The sound of the hunting dogs barking behind him drew his attention, and his eyes drifted towards them and their handler on foot.

“How are Emory and Audrey feeling today, boy?” The Earl asked the young servant, and a small chuckle fell throughout the group at the mention of the animal's names. After all, it was the Earls children who had decided on them, and their consensus was to dub the Greyhounds after themselves.

“Right as rain, sire,” he answered, “Audrey seems to have picked up on something.” In an act of perfect timing, both dogs began to pull on their leashes, barking at some unknown prey in the distant forest.

The Earl nodded before he spoke, “Well, I suppose they know better than me. Release them.”

The huntsman unclipped the straps from their collars, and two gray streaks bolted off into the wood.

“Follow them,” declared Teren, and the party began to make their way through the fog. Countess Proia of Dioan sped up her horse to walk in tandem with the Earl.

“Teren,” she began, “It’s been a long time, old friend. I don’t think we’ve spoken since the war.”

“I remember we had a nice conversation about me being undeserving of your sister only a month and a half ago, Proia.” False annoyance seeped into the man's tone.

“How is Lysandra? She hasn’t written to me for two weeks already.”

“Is that what this is about, truly? Lys simply hasn’t been feeling well, Proia. You know as well as I that spring makes her more prone to fever than the rest of the seasons.”

“Ah, right. And the children? How are my dear little troublemakers?”

Teren paused, grimacing, “Audrey is angry at me, and Emory won’t stop trying to sneak away from his lessons.”

“What did you do to make my niece so very mad?”

“You are so quick to assume that I am at fault, Dioan.”

“You stole away my sister, Gealhollow, everything will always be your-”

The sound of a loud, painful whimper cut through the Countess’ tangent, and the two quickly turned to the sound. Exchanging a glance, the nobles spurred their horses on faster through the thicket.

“You should’ve never let the children pick those hounds’ namesakes,” Proia said, “It has me all worried.” The Earl simply nodded, a growing feeling of unease in his chest. The rest of the party fell behind in their pursuit, and before long the brambles became too dense to walk a steed through. The pair dismounted, readying their muskets as the sound of wounded cries grew louder.

There was that dreadful cry, as well as the growling of the animal's littermate, and underneath it all one could hear the quiet, labored breath of a human being.

“What is that?” The Countess whispered, pulling her gun up and ready to fire. The Earl shushed her, placing a palm on her barrel and pushing it down.

“Don’t point that thing recklessly,” he chided, taking quiet, careful steps. Soon enough, only a wall of briars separated them from the blurred image of one of the dogs, barking and running back and forth to something unseen. Teren handed the Countess his weapon, before unsheathing the sword at his hip and hacking away at the brush. He pushed his way through, and stopped in his tracks at what he saw.

A young woman sat against the trunk of a tree, a knife in her hands and her eyes wild, her hair tangled in a mess of twigs and dirt. Blood ran down the front of her mouth, dripping down her chin. The crimson stain covered her arms; it coated her shirt in a sheen of crimson and soaked her pants in a deep maroon. One could see it matted within the twigs and dirt that made up the rats nest on her head, and the way that it dried and cracked down about the edges of her face. The red ran down a gash in her forehead like a marking for battle, and covered her cheeks. All that anyone could make out on her were those eyes; Chestnut brown and boring into your soul like a predator looking at it’s prey. She looked as though a wild creature was made into man, and a small jolt of fear went up the Earl’s spine.

She most certainly had to be dying.

“Proia! Get the dogs!” The Earls glanced only once to the hounds, seeing a large gash down Emory’s side; His breathing seemed shallow, each rise and fall of his chest unleashing a pained whimper from the animal's throat. He’d most likely die, and that thought sent a chill down Teren’s spine. I really should have named the damned things myself, he thought. Still, he turned back to the girl, and placed his hands up in surrender when he saw she still had the knife pointed out at the closest thing to her. Which happened to be him. His heartbeat quickened, before rationality calmed him.

“We don’t mean any harm, dear,” he started, taking a step closer. She tried to crawl back further, but her back was already against the bark. Her mouth pulled together in a grimace, a grunt escaping her lips, pain clear in her eyes as she stuck the knife further out towards the Earl.

“Woah dear. I’m terribly sorry about the greyhounds. They’re trained to track blood in case my children get lost out here,” the man gestured around him, before bringing his eyes back to the woman. He crouched down on the balls of his feet, noticing the way the lids of her eyes began to falter, the grip on her knife slipping. She looked truly exhausted.

“We need to get you treated,” he said, then paused as he took in her state once more, “Where all are you hurt?”

“I’m,” she grunted, forcing her eyes open and tightening the grip on the dagger, “not.” The Earl paused, dumbfounded.

“Don’t lie, Lass,” Proia called from behind him, where she held Audrey back and had Emory laying in her lap. His breathing had seemed to even out, and the Countess’ jacket was wrapped tightly around his side.

“I’m…not,” the girl simply repeated, her voice raspy and sore.

Silence fell over the trio, even Audrey had ceased her mindless barking, before the party caught up with them. The Earl’s father, a largely stout man by the name of Tharion Gealhollow, led the charge into the clearing with a shout.

“What in the gods’ name is happening, Teren?”

Teren glanced back at his father, and the young woman moved so quickly that Proia’s cry did nothing to stop the events that proceeded. The Earl suddenly felt a sharp prick to his neck, and a grumbling voice in his ear.

“Tell them to back away, or you die,” she whispered. He swallowed around the knot in his throat, and diligently repeated out her demands. She stood, and pulled him up off the balls of his feet to copy her, quickly turning him around to face the party. He raised his hands in surrender, and the countess began to curse.

“Godsdammit, Teren, if you let this rotten little halfwit conniving-”

“Shut up, Proia,” he said, and felt the knife dig further into his skin.

“What do you want, woman?” Tharion yelled out.

“Tell them to back away,” she whispered into his ear. The man could feel the blood soaking into his cloak, and the way the girl tried to avoid leaning any weight onto him. He chanced a look back at her once, and saw the way bags formed crescents under her eyes, and the plea within them. She looked young, at that moment.

“We can help you, child,” he whispered back. She paused, contemplating, then scoffed.

“No one can help me now, fool.” He felt her lift the weight of the blade off his neck, and pushed him forward. The others rushed forward, and Proia grabbed the Earl’s shoulders to steady him.

“Are you alright, brother?” The man reached up to feel the small stream of blood that leaked from his neck, and nodded.

“I’m alright,” he answered.

“I’ll have her hung,” she said, anger seeping into the woman's tone, she went to order the knights to follow after her, and Teren interrupted with a wave of his free hand.

“No, no, wait,” he paused as silence followed, “If she’s found, bring her back alive. She is not to be treated as a prisoner.”

“What? Teren, you must be kidding-”

“Alive, Proia,” he lowered his voice so that only she could hear, “She was a child, and she needs help.”

“Though we have searched long and hard in honor of the Lord of the domain we swear to serve, the Knights of Gealhollow were unable to find any trace of the woman who appeared during the Earl’s hunt. All traces of her vanished at the port, and without any proper investigation, the Imperial Navy has no reason to assist us further. We regret to inform you, sire, that it is under Gealhollow’s best interest to cease this pursuit of the unknown woman”

- A notice to the Earl of Gealhollow from the captain of his knight company

The Fractured After

The first thing that she noticed was the pain.

Relentless, searing pain that crawled from every pore of her skin. It chained itself to her like shackles, making itself known anew every time the waves pushed and pulled her facedown body about the shore. Her lungs felt drenched, as did her sopping wet clothes. Her blood ran cold along the sand, and her cracked lips stung from sea salt. Distantly, she wondered if she was dead. Though that thought didn’t remain long, as another sharp burst of pain pulled her back to reality. Dead people didn’t feel pain, or, well, anything she supposed.

The blazing sun beat down on her, and it was with a sort of lethargic exhaustion that she crawled out of the ebbing waves. Sand stuck to her hair, her skin, the underbeds of her nails, weighing her down and clinging to her like ivy to bark. She could taste it on her tongue, and felt it hiding in the cracks of her teeth. She really, truly hated sand. It was so annoying, the way that it seemed to stick to every piece and part of her.

She sat up, and a groan escaped her, heavy and tired and pained. Her eyes drifted inland, where shops and houses lined the horizon, the setting sun casting shadows on the beach. Gulls squawked above her, their annoying shrieks echoing sharply in her mind. Her head was pounding.

When she finally stood, her legs shaking beneath her, faltering with every step, a cold wind blew past, and she truly looked like a sea monster come ashore. Her tangled mess of hair whipped about, covering her eyes and filling her vision. Her clothes clung to her skin, weighing her down. Blood mixed with water, and weakness held her close like an old friend. She pondered for a moment about something she’d already forgotten, before continuing forwards, towards the city streets. She’d need food, stitches, antibiotics, though she wasn’t quite sure how she’d get them; there wasn’t any money in her pockets.

She’d been laying on the sand like drifting seaweed washed ashore for more than a couple hours, watching the clouds pass by and wondering how she’d gotten here. There were a few somewhat fragmented truths that she could discover on her own. Her voice felt raw and choked when she had called out for help, and there was a distorted memory of coughing up water and blood that she pulled from the back of her mind. In fact, she could still taste the iron of it on her tongue. And with this information she came to some fairly standard conclusions, and was able to easily picture them in her mind: hours of constant drowning, reaching up for a breath of air before being sucked back down into the ocean's cruel currents.

This information paled in comparison to the more concerning truths:

She did not know where she was.

Worse yet, she did not know who she was.

The realization came to her suddenly, quickly, quietly. It was similar to the way a person realizes, too late, that they left their door unlocked. The knowledge was suddenly just there– obvious and important, but not so much as to delay whatever more crucial thing was happening in the moment. So she decided to push away the feeling of dread in her stomach, which could have very well been hunger, and continued on into the city.

In truth, a name is not very necessary to a dead person, so rationality deemed staying alive now and worrying about tomorrow later the best choice. It was an easy decision to make between quelling the pain in her bones and breaking down in anxiety.

She forces herself to move, to walk, and it takes everything in her will to not fall over and let the darkness that swirls about her vision swallow her whole. Her footsteps are unsteady, and she hopes she looks more like a drunkard than a woman dying. The hazy feeling doesn’t clear, but hunger cuts through it. She needs food, shelter, something to keep her from bleeding out. She repeats those words like a mantra that can keep a crumbling bridge standing. One hand putting pressure on the wound at her side, she staggers down the road, looking for something to steal. Food. Coin. Either would be fine at the moment. Later on, she will wonder why she didn’t ask for help, or go to a hospital. For now, neither option even presents themselves in her mind.

The next poor stranger she passes is without his coin purse when he turns down the block. There’s not enough in the leather pouch to even buy her a loaf of bread. She continues on, and the dark cloak that sticks to her skin keeps anyone from noticing the blood on her hands. They would not have realized her pain either way, too caught up in their own lives to care for a stranger. She turns down the next street, every nerve in her body aching for relief, for rest. She pushes past it. If she stops now, if she closes her eyes, she isn’t sure she’ll ever open them again.

Her next target is a young, tall, lean man in an old but well-kept suit, thin glasses perched on his nose. When she bumps into him, her hands reach into his pocket. The motion is swift, unnoticeable.

“Whoa— Are you alright, ma’am,” he asks, stepping forward to steady her. Her hand pulls out of his pocket a second too late, and his gaze travels to where his coat settles from the movement. Time stands still, and then she swats his hand away, and runs.

She cannot even see where she is going, she only knows that she must leave, without any hint of delay. Her feet take her down the street, the man's steps behind her audible as she turns the corner. When she does, three walls close in around her, a dead end, and a curse escapes her lips. The darkness on the cusp of her vision grows, her legs shaking with every movement, blood dripping down her thigh. When she turns back around, he is already there, lanky and tall, and she trips on the cobblestone below her. A jolt of pain courses through her as her back makes contact with the ground, and a pained groan falls from her tongue. A hand is offered to her. She looks through tired eyes and wild hair, but cannot make out the stranger's face.

“I- di-dn’t take- anything,” she growls out, coughing between the words. Her voice is raw and choked. The stranger pauses, contemplative.

“I know,” he eventually declares, “You’re bleeding.” He reveals his hand, marred red with her blood. To that, she says nothing. She can’t. Her breathing is too ragged, her thoughts too unfocused. She can barely even make out his words. Stars dance along her vision, slumber beckoning her closer. Eventually she finds the strength to nod at him in response, and his lips tense into a grim line.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” he says, kneeling down beside her.

No. A voice in her head warns. It pushes at the edges of her mind, crawling at her thoughts, forcing her to obey, to heed its words. She is too tired to be rational, even though some quieter parts of her know that seeking professional help would be less self destructive.

“No,” she says, “No hospitals.” The darkness creeps around her, satisfied. It pulls her closer to its depths, craving the blood that she spills onto the ground. The man speaks, though she cannot make out any single word he says. She doesn’t know what to do with this stranger that should have left well enough alone. The voice speaks up once more, quiet, and the darkness grins at the way the world blurs in her vision. The moment before she falls to unconsciousness she feels them both in her mind, preening at her downfall, and she realizes, too late, that the darkness and the voice are one and the same.

Exhaustion takes hold, and they both swallow her whole. 

Chapter 1

It is dark, and a chilling cold envelops her. She tries to stand, and shackles hold her back, the clanking metal making small purple bruises form about her wrists. Her breathing is forced, heavy, and sweat and blood pour down her back. The pain feels too sudden, too unexplainable. She cries out, her voice raw and hurt and broken. Nobody comes to save her.

She wakes with a start, her covers thrown to the side and her fists gripping the sheets. Her eyes are crazed, looking over the room in a dazed and anxious state. There is no need; no one is here but the shadows and silence, and they have never been able to hurt her. She releases her hold on the bed-sheets to feel the skin of her ankles, and a small sigh of relief escapes her when she realizes they are not bound.

The door creaks, and her neck snaps at the sound. Her gaze finds the source; a small boy with wispy blonde hair and wide gray eyes. He stands in the hallway with a cup in one hand and the other holding the door knob. The two stare at each other for a minute before he speaks up.

Without ever looking away the boy turns his head and calls out, “Mama! The girl’s awake!” Footsteps sound down the hall, and an older woman with a sturdy wooden cane appears beside the boy, her poise graceful, her speech elegant.

“Lior Cribley. What did I tell you about leaving the poor soul alone? Go on and wait for your brother in the living room, dear. Send him in here when he gets home, alright boy?”

“But Mama-”

“I said go to the living room, son,” the woman's words are definite and irrefutable, and the child murmurs a quiet, “Yes, ma’am,” before sulking off down the hallway. It is for his own good, the girl knows. She can see the wariness in the woman’s stance. The way her hand grips ever so slightly tighter around the head of her cane. The way her eyes scan over her, distrust in her gaze.

Still, she walks over to the girl lying in bed without hesitation, and sits down at the chair pulled up to the edge of the wooden frame.

“My name is Viella,” she starts, “My son brought you here. He said you didn’t want to go to the hospital?” There is a question in her words, but it remains unanswered. The girl simply stares, unable to find her voice. She isn’t sure what she could even say. She has no real idea as to why she was so against going to a hospital. The voice in her head whispers, a quiet reminder.

They want you dead. It taunts, the ghost of a laugh on the tip of its tongue. Why would anyone want her dead again? She can’t remember. She can’t remember anything, actually. The moment she realizes that fact, panic makes her face pale. She’d forgotten how much she’d forgotten. Her name. Her age. How she got here. All of it— gone. Escaped from her mind like a wild criminal on the run. The questions pile up faster than she can count, swirling around her mind in an endless flurry of absurd and unsure conclusions. Too many to count, none of them answerable, and all of them a harsh reminder of who she might have once been. The truth feels like an unwound rope, scattered about her brain, and she cannot find the end to even begin detangling it.

Viella continues when she realizes she won’t be getting a response, “I wasn’t sure you’d wake, in all honesty. You slept through the night and all day today.” Another awkward silence fills the air, and the girl can feel eyes on her every thought. A small feeling of reassurance builds in her chest as she looks down at her bandaged body. Wherever she is— whoever this strange woman might be, she at least doesn’t want her dead. It almost concerns her how easily that thought comes to mind. She shakes her head, and pushes the idea away for later.

“What is your name?”

The question is piercing, almost painful. It is sudden, though not unexpected, and the girl does not quite know what to say. A forlorn sort of comfort settles over her, and her lips set in a rigid line. ‘I don’t have one’ can’t be right; everyone must have a name. ‘I don’t know’ is not the most acceptable answer either, how could it be? Still, it is the only answer she has.

“I-” she pauses, discomfort filling her tone, “I am still figuring that out…” Her voice fizzles out into a small murmur, and Viella stills, contemplating.

The older woman hums decidedly before she speaks, “May I look at your wound?” Her tone is softer than what was expected, her words not filled with angry suspicion but concerned care. Still, the girl hesitates. The voice in her head warns her against it. Trusting. Showing her weaknesses to this unknown factor in front of her. No! It screams itself ragged. Get out! Get away! Run. It commands her. It pulls an ache to the front of her mind, and she pushes it away for the moment. She is more aware now than she was in that alley. She will not let the voice dictate her actions without proper thought.

Her gaze travels the room, and there she finds it; a table in the corner, covered in bloody rags and sewing supplies and a bowl filled with murky carmine water. She looks to her fractured body, where she finds her chest and torso bound, covering her excessive amount of injuries, before her eyes find themselves staring into Viella’s gray ones, little storm clouds overtaking the sky. There is something hidden there. Something ancient and compelling. It might be the world’s oldest and most competent survival skill. She thinks that it might be kindness.

Despite the voice's protests, she nods, swallowing around a lump of anxiety in her throat. 

"Delightful," Viella says, before ever so slowly reaching forward and beginning to unfurl her bandaged waist. Silence flows around them, more comfortable now, and there is a small sense of relief that envelops the girl. 

"Mama! Mama, Kernie's home!" The child from before appears in the doorway, and the girl stares wide eyed at his small form. He seems so full of winder that it perplexes and surprises her. He turns his gaze to her for a moment and gives a toothy grin before running back down the hall where the sound of a door closing echoes through the house. 

Viella chuckles at his retreating blonde hair, and when she turns back to her work, she sees it there, in the girls eyes. A flurry of emotions too deep to identify and too complex to express. It is then that she becomes a little more aware, with a certainty that one can only find with age, that her children are not in any more danger with this young woman in her home. She contentedly hums a tune as she finishes wrapping the girl back up just in time for her elder son to walk into the room. He has to duck to avoid hitting the door frame, his lanky build simultaneously taking up the entire room while seeming paper thin and shakily out of the way. He looks away as the girl pulls a new shirt over her head, and then turns back, an infectious smile much like Lior's appearing on his face. 

"Hello there," he says, "I'm Kernin Cribley, and it was me who brought you to our humble abode." As he turns to address his mother, she notices how similar the two are. They have the same features, mostly. Matching owlish gray eyes and thick brown hair, though the boys nose is straighter, his lips thinner than Viella's own. She focuses once more and catches the tail end of the two's conversation. 

"-I'll need to monitor her condition, but she seems to be in the clear," Viella stops as they both direct their attention to her. She straightens up at their stares, and clears her throat. Silence follows. 

"That is, of course, if you intend to stay any longer, child." 

The girl thinks, long and hard. 

"Well, dear? Do you want to stay here or not? I don't imagine you have anywhere else to go, do you?" Viella asks again with a huff, false annoyance dripping from her words. The girl nods, and a small smile appears on the elder woman's face. She stomps her cane once in finality, "That settles it, then," she says, "You'll stay at least until you are recovered. Now, I've got to start dinner, you wait here and rest and we'll leave you alone till then." 

The two leave, and the sun continues to fall in the western sky. The girl simply stares out the window to the distant sea, her mind blank. She has no thoughts or questions, only simple existence, and for now, that is enough. Kernin and Lior Cribley bring her supper, a warm and simple meal that she does not remember actually tasting, before they let her sleep for the night. She closes her eyes, and lies awake for hours before it comes for her.

It crawls from the dredges of her consciousness, and screeches in her mind. Get up! The voice calls out, so loud in her head that she wonders if it echoes in the room. Get out! What are you doing? You cannot trust these people! Stupid! Stupid Stupid Stupid!

She sits up in a start, grabbing at herself with her hands and leaving little cuts from her nails at her temple. Her heartbeat speeds up at the violence in the voice, fear chilling her bones. Quickly, she stands and lets her feet walk the floor, trying to pace the sound away.

It doesn’t work, and the voice continues its assault.

Leave! Now! Before they realize you’re awake!

The girl pauses for a moment. Would that make it stop? Should she listen? She takes action. She hurriedly moves to the bed, kneeling on the mattress and opening the window.

Move. Don’t stop. Keep going. The voice urges her on, and the gentle breeze of an autumn wind blowing in through the aperture seems to pull her forward, towards the beckoning streets and the darkness, the ever-looming night.

“What are you doing?” A voice asks. A real, living voice. Not the one in her head. She’s been caught. She turns her head back to the soft sound to see the little child, holding a teddy bear in his grasp, curiosity and fear gleaming in his eyes. She pauses, as she always seems to do at the sight of the boy, and pulls herself away from the window, despite the voices protests.

NO! It screams out. RUN! NOW!

Somehow, she is able to quiet it to a dull whisper, and closes the window entirely.

She steps off the bed, and turns back to him.

“Nothing,” she whispers out, her voice still rough and raw, but she pushes past it, “I’m not doing anything, don’t worry.” Her lips crack as she forces a small smile to ease the tension in his grasp.

“Are you sure,” he asks, and she nods, taking a tentative step towards him.

“Yes, I’m certain.” She reaches him quicker than she expected, kneeling down on the balls of her feet and brushing a strand of hair from his face. He stares at her, quiet, and she gives him an encouraging smile.

“What’s his name,” she asks, gesturing towards the bear.

“Lori,” he says, “Her name is Lori.”

“Ah, I apologize Lori,” she ruffles the bear's head before turning back up to him, “Lior and Lori? What are you two doing up this late?” The child pauses, thinking.

“We heard something and were worried. Are you leaving? Why are you leaving? Was it because I was being pesky? Mama says I should let sick people rest. I promise I’ll let you rest. Please don’t leave,” the child grabs the hem of her sleeve, tightly holding onto her as though she’ll disappear.

His words are like knives in her throat. Why does he care if she leaves? She hardly knows the child.

“You weren’t being pesky,” she reassures him, “Why don’t you want me to leave?”

Lior shrugs, chewing on the inside of his cheek before answering, “Just feel like you shouldn’t. I like you,” he declares, like that is all the answer that she could possibly need.

“Why do you like me?”

“When you woke up you were scared,” he replies.

“Scared?”

“Yeah, you were. I could tell. You don’t have to hide it from me. I promise I won’t tell anyone, even Kernie,” he whispers the last part like a secret promise, and a small smile appears on the girl's face.

“I suppose I did have a bad dream,” she recalls the feeling of metal on skin, of sweat and stink and insufferable pain, “But don’t worry, I’ll have good dreams from now on,” she lies.

“Ah, you’re an Allora, aren’t you?” She looks at him questioningly.

“An Allora? What’s that?”

“The people who can control their dreams! Mama told me about them. They’re from Kaplen, Mama’s home.” She pauses.

“Yeah, yeah I am. You can call me Allora,” she gives the child a smile, more genuine than she thought possible. The child laughs.

“It’s not a name, silly,” he tells her.

“Why not?”

His brows furrow up, concentrating, before he decisively speaks, “Alright Allora,” Lior smiles too, “Can you tuck me back in? I don’t wanna wake up Mama.” She nods, before following the boy to his room and pulling the covers up to his shoulders.

“Goodnight, Allora,” Lior says, already drifting off.

“Goodnight, Lior and Lori,” she whispers.

When she turns back around, Viella is standing in the doorway, and she jumps up in a fright.

“I was just tucking him in,” she replies, still whispering.

“I know,” the older woman answers, pausing as she looks beyond the younger, “Follow me, I’ll walk you back to your room.”

Allora follows Viella quietly, shutting the door behind her.

“Allora,” she says, “the name suits you. As though God himself chose it.” She gets a nod in reply as the girl realizes she was listening to their conversation.

Viella stops at her room, turning back to study Allora’s features in the moonlight that comes in from the window.

“I’m glad you chose to stay, dear,” she says, “I think you will make a delightful addition to this house.” She gives her a smirkish smile, one that Allora is beginning to recognize as her genuine one.

“Goodnight, Allora.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Cribley.”