It was midnight.

The tower’s air was pure no more; it smelled of dust—dust and the way furniture does when it ages without being properly cared for.

By now, Elian had already gone, like a ghostly apparition that made Ophelia wonder whether he had been a fraction of her imagination. The day had seemed both long and short, short and long, and she did not know what to make of it. Kris had promised her he would be back soon; but how soon was soon? she wondered. And what if he didn’t come back? What if he left her here all alone like—

Ophelia paused. Like?

Like what?

Like who?

She shook her head.

She could not remember. Perhaps it was the cold of this room that was driving her mad; the fact that there was a fireplace right before her—one she hadn’t any means to light.

Maybe I should sleep for now, was the conclusion she came to; for moving only injured her wrists a little more, and the shackles that bound her were not showing any signs of ageing to the point where they would crack, or break.

She closed her eyes.

There was a voice.

There was a sun.

There, were the memories of a distant past, the soft whispers of the Earth and the kind touch of a woman whose name she could not remember.