Page 52

Vidar

The first time I hear Wren’s telephone make its peculiar little chirping noise, I assume something inside it is dying.

The second time, I realize the sound is deliberate.

The third time, I begin to hate it.

We are sitting on her sofa, surrounded by the flowers she insists on bringing home from her shop, when the device vibrates against the table.

Wren glances at it.

And the smile disappears from her face.

I know that look.

I have seen it on soldiers awaiting execution. On villagers watching armies approach. On children who have learned that footsteps outside their door mean pain.

Fear.

My entire body goes still.

“Wren.”

She snatches up the telephone and turns it facedown.

“It’s nothing.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

“They’re cold.”

“It is warm in here.”

“Well, congratulations on your excellent understanding of indoor temperatures.”

Ordinarily, her sharp tongue amuses me.

Tonight, it does not.

The device chirps again.

She flinches.

Something ancient and vicious stirs beneath my ribs.

“Who is contacting you?”

“Nobody.”

I look at the telephone.

“Nobody is persistent.”

“Vidar.”

“Show me.”

Her green eyes flash.