[/html]Late afternoon, 28th August. Myrika's room.
Each time she woke, for the briefest moment, she let herself believe that she was home. They had draped a fine collection of pelts on the sofa in the cottage den, warm by the fireplace. Their horses had been kept in a small barn nearby, and in the winter the air would always smell of burning wood and dried hay and snow and fresh mint. She and her sister would lay together reading while their father prepare meals in the kitchen, cutting meat into small enough bites that they could chew on their own. Afterwards they would all sit together by the fire, warming their toes, telling each other stories, real and imagined, until sleep came.
Here there was a fire, and outside there were horses. In a few more months, there would be snow, and in the hills further inland, she knew there was mint. She sat on a bed of furs that smelled like her sister, but this could never be home.
But why? Cassandra leaned against the wall, one knee propped up so she could lay her wounded arm over it. Having finally washed properly in the nearby lake, her fur was once again colorless and clean, and the silvery hair that fell around her face was no longer matted with dirt and blood. She thought the scent of death lingered still, but sometimes she thought this for weeks. (Perhaps it was only the scent of hatred, carried with her always.) Her shoulder did not seem to be infected, and as a flesh wound, she expected it would not bother her much by the time the leaves began changing color. Her ankle would be better by then as well.
And then what?
The albino woman drew her other knee up and for a moment tried to lean forward, prop both arms on her knees, and lay her head across them. But her shoulder protested with a sharp, stabbing jolt of pain that ran down the length of her arm. Wincing, Cassandra aborted her plan and leaned back again, laying both legs flat now and letting her arms dangle beside her. She sighed.
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