Post by toniapolak on Jul 16, 2022 22:20:13 GMT -5
PROLOGUE
The little girl lay lifeless on the ground, obscured from view as a small crowd worked frantically to revive her. Her gangly legs protruded through a gap in their hunched-over forms, her sodden yellow sneakers bouncing with their efforts to restart her heart.
The night storm raged around them. The wind howled across the loch, churning the black water, and sending it crashing over the islet. Rain pelted the rescuers with unrelenting fury, lashing their faces and stinging their hands, the biting cold hampering their efforts to save the lass.
Aunt Francis and Uncle Walt took turns breathing into the child’s mouth. They pounded her ribs and shouted her name, their voices hoarse and splintered with grief.
“Ivy! Come on, lass, wake up!”
“Breathe, damn you!”
Rita, a caretaker, and close family friend, paced back and forth as she yelled at someone on the other end of her phone. The hem of her dressing gown dragged in the mud, the fabric heavy and drenched with rain. “We need paramedics to Silvemuir!” she shouted, struggling to make herself heard over the storm. “Silvemuir! On the islet!”
At her feet, Ivy’s mother, Lilian, knelt by the child’s side, sobbing in the arms of an athletic, bare-chested man. “She’s only seven!” she wailed into the crook of his neck. “Please, God, don’t let her die.”
The man stroked Lilian’s hair with a broad, manicured hand. “Why don’t you go inside, love? Hazel must be wondering where you are.”
Lilian sniffed, scrubbing her face with a soaked pyjama sleeve. She nodded. “I should call their father.” The woman’s face crumpled, and she sank into the mud, making no move to go.
Rita pivoted, turning her back to them both. “What did you say?” she shouted into her phone. Her face darkened. “Yes, I’m aware there’s a storm; I’m standing in the middle of it, you idiot!” She flicked her long silver braid over her shoulder and resumed her pacing. “I don’t care how you get here—just . . . get here!” She disconnected the call and jammed the phone into her sodden pocket, cursing and praying in the same breath to any god brave enough to listen.
* * *
Unnoticed by the rescuers, the man sat perched on a nearby rock. He was wrapped in a dark cloak, unaffected by the wind and the rain. He sat silent and unmoving, watching Ivy from the shadows of his hood.
Curious and unafraid, the girl approached him, her yellow sneakers squelching with every step. “Am I dead?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” said the man, his voice devoid of emotion.
“Are you here to take me to Heaven?” Ivy’s heart filled with joy as she thought of her dog, Cedar, and her Nanna Rose, who were both waiting for her there.
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “No.”
Ivy paused, considering this. She glanced over at her family, still vigorously trying to revive her. According to her mother, there was only one other place she could go.
The little girl lay lifeless on the ground, obscured from view as a small crowd worked frantically to revive her. Her gangly legs protruded through a gap in their hunched-over forms, her sodden yellow sneakers bouncing with their efforts to restart her heart.
The night storm raged around them. The wind howled across the loch, churning the black water, and sending it crashing over the islet. Rain pelted the rescuers with unrelenting fury, lashing their faces and stinging their hands, the biting cold hampering their efforts to save the lass.
Aunt Francis and Uncle Walt took turns breathing into the child’s mouth. They pounded her ribs and shouted her name, their voices hoarse and splintered with grief.
“Ivy! Come on, lass, wake up!”
“Breathe, damn you!”
Rita, a caretaker, and close family friend, paced back and forth as she yelled at someone on the other end of her phone. The hem of her dressing gown dragged in the mud, the fabric heavy and drenched with rain. “We need paramedics to Silvemuir!” she shouted, struggling to make herself heard over the storm. “Silvemuir! On the islet!”
At her feet, Ivy’s mother, Lilian, knelt by the child’s side, sobbing in the arms of an athletic, bare-chested man. “She’s only seven!” she wailed into the crook of his neck. “Please, God, don’t let her die.”
The man stroked Lilian’s hair with a broad, manicured hand. “Why don’t you go inside, love? Hazel must be wondering where you are.”
Lilian sniffed, scrubbing her face with a soaked pyjama sleeve. She nodded. “I should call their father.” The woman’s face crumpled, and she sank into the mud, making no move to go.
Rita pivoted, turning her back to them both. “What did you say?” she shouted into her phone. Her face darkened. “Yes, I’m aware there’s a storm; I’m standing in the middle of it, you idiot!” She flicked her long silver braid over her shoulder and resumed her pacing. “I don’t care how you get here—just . . . get here!” She disconnected the call and jammed the phone into her sodden pocket, cursing and praying in the same breath to any god brave enough to listen.
* * *
Unnoticed by the rescuers, the man sat perched on a nearby rock. He was wrapped in a dark cloak, unaffected by the wind and the rain. He sat silent and unmoving, watching Ivy from the shadows of his hood.
Curious and unafraid, the girl approached him, her yellow sneakers squelching with every step. “Am I dead?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” said the man, his voice devoid of emotion.
“Are you here to take me to Heaven?” Ivy’s heart filled with joy as she thought of her dog, Cedar, and her Nanna Rose, who were both waiting for her there.
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “No.”
Ivy paused, considering this. She glanced over at her family, still vigorously trying to revive her. According to her mother, there was only one other place she could go.
