Forsaken Dreamscape: Deluxe Edition

Prologue

Storms… This is a night of storms. That was all Wren could think as she walked along the narrow ridge of the roof beneath the darkened sky. A vicious wind blew her fair curls all about as the moon shone down on her from beyond a cloudy haze. The beacon winked at her mischievously, and she began to feel doubt.

Wren remembered the tempest–the way lightning had flashed so violently as thunder growled in the amber sky. She had not been away so long that she had forgotten. She could recall the storm–though perhaps not as well as the way Rifter’s face had looked when he’d peered adoringly into her eyes.

Rifter… He was the one who cared about her–the only one who could save her now. She wanted to see him again, desperately, but he was not here. Wren did not understand, and could not quite ignore the circumstances. Could this not be put off until the storm was over? A soothing flow of whispers discouraged her from thinking. Through her tangling hair, she saw a tiny spot of light dancing before her, and though she could not understand the language of the fairy creature, she understood the message.

It was from Rifter. He was inviting her back to his world of dreams. Nevermor was calling.

The line of orphans–all eighteen of them from Miss Nora’s Home–marched along the roof, guided by the light of the fairy wisp. Dark tendrils of smoke rose from chimneys in London’s twilight, adding to the dark shadow of night overhead. She could smell the smoke, a sure sign of warning on most occasions, but no alarms were set off in her mind.

Rifter had promised to come back for her–had promised not to forget–but yet he had sent his companion to retrieve her instead. Wren was almost certain that this wasn’t right, but she could not question it, perhaps for the soft reassurance of the fairy’s spell, urging her forward.

I will go, Wren thought languidly. Yes, I will fly there.

The others had already gone on before her–had already taken flight off the eaves of the house, laughing gleefully. Wren would join them. Without questioning further, she closed her eyes, and with a contented smile on her lips, she prepared to step from the roof.

Chapter One

LONDON, 1877

1

It was the sound of screaming that drew Wren back from the outer nothingness.

Peering through the dark of her room, she could hear nurses bustling down the hallway, muted as nuns in their soft-soled shoes. Shadows of hulking orderlies played along the bricks as they fought with the shrieking inmate in the cell across the hall. A screeching door gave way to tears, and the patient’s shadow flailed about, her limbs slinging violently in all directions.

Wren lay still in her own cell, and after a few moments, the screaming faded in the distant corridors. The manic patient had been silenced, unconscious now; off to dreamland and the bloodletting chambers. The ward was quiet once again. Wren kept herself quiet as well. She did not want to be next. Instead, she rolled over and pulled the thin blanket up to her chin.

I must try to sleep, she told herself, but she never did sleep–not anymore.

Perhaps it was impossible that she did not sleep at all, even though she was convinced she did not, but she was even more certain that she did not dream. She could not remember the last dream she’d had–not a sensation of wonder, impossible fantasy, or whisper of a kiss–especially now that she was here in this place. This discouraged her, and at that thought, she felt trouble brewing in her stomach until she could no longer lay still.

Wren sat up on the thin mattress, through which every spring of the iron frame twisted into her back. She reached beneath the bed to retrieve the journal she’d been allowed to keep, along with a blunt pencil. It was her only possession within the stark room that could offer her solace. The pages would be her confession.

Turning to a fresh page, she began a new entry of her thoughts, though she did not know the date.

Once again it has been a night without dreams, she wrote, and therefore no nightmares, but I awaken with the same fear. I fear that…

Her hand hesitated on the page. She thought of what she would write next–thought of Witherspoon reading it–and she could not bring herself to go further. She closed the journal, put it away with the dust, and rested back against the bed in resignation.

But her fear did not leave her.

Wren’s inability to dream kept her constantly troubled, for if she could not dream, then she could not hope to get back to the place where she belonged.

I may not find Nevermor again, she thought sadly. It was not the first time.

Wren had never forgotten it, that secret land beyond the sea of dreams. She longed for it daily, but could not get back, no matter how hard she wished or how often she tried. It could only be found through dreams, after all, but since Rifter had brought her back from that place as a last favor, it had been impossible for her to create her own dreams, let alone see that sandy beach where she had first washed ashore.

Was it her own fault that she could not find that world? If she’d ever sought escape, she needed it now more than ever. Never in all her life–despite what other fears she’d had–had she ever imagined that she would be locked away in an asylum, accused of a debilitating madness. Then again, she’d not predicted most of the details of her life beyond her father’s house.

She remembered the first days here, crammed in a cell with many other girls–some as timid and frightened as she was, others explosive–and yet they were all the same in the eyes of their captors. They were faceless and less than human. They were a collection of pretty dolls with long hair and glass eyes, meant to be observed and occasionally toyed with.

Though she had been caged like an animal, she was thankful to have been ignored. She’d kept quiet and let herself blend in, and while some of the other inmates might occasionally keep too close or try to eat her hair, Wren knew there were worse things in the world. She had seen some of them with her own eyes.

Here, the creatures in the dark are of a different sort.

Wren had dealt with what she was given, relieved to still have her life after what had happened at the orphanage, telling herself every day that this trial would not be for long. Rifter would not abandon her. He would come.

She had held onto that belief, but it had begun to slip over time.

As in Nevermor, time seemed to have no relevance at the asylum. All of the days blurred together into masses of vaporous nothing. There was no hope of gaining and no fear of losing. Her existence spun like wheels in mud. Though she could not quite say when it had happened–after weeks, perhaps months of being locked away–eventually the quality of her life within the asylum began to change.

Overcrowding had become a problem, and it was decided that the ranks of inmates should be thinned. Some were to be sent off to distant country asylums, and Wren had feared being taken to another place. She’d wanted to keep herself constant until Rifter had found her.

As fate would have it, she got her salvation in the form of a doctor named Witherspoon, a logical man with an intelligent forehead and deep-set eyes. While the directors had been sorting through the patients, he’d become interested in her story, insisting she stay close. Though she was not quite ignored any longer because of him, things got a bit better for her after that.

Wren was put into her own individual space. Though it was merely a small cell, she was glad for the solitude. She was allowed to take walks outside with the others in an attractive courtyard surrounded by high walls. An aviary was added within the ward, where the songs of cheerful birds could uplift her. The condition of the hospital was much improved.

Still, she avoided association with the other women there. Some of them were wrongfully accused, just as she was, but the last group she had told innocent stories to had wound up dead because of her. She could not let it happen again.

I will not let anyone else be ruined because of me.

As Wren rested there on her bed in the cramped cell, the night gradually turned into a dismal, gray morning. Wren listened to the noises in the deep, echoing halls around her as the asylum came to life.

The birds in the aviary were chirping with the morning light, at peace with their lives of captivity. Doors were opening and nurses were talking, wheeling in squeaky carts of breakfast and medicine. Other inmates awoke in their cells, some louder than others, meeting the day with scattered emotions. Still, Wren saw no need to stir. She was tired and weak, but still a long way from rest.

She lay there until her usual nurse, Mary, brought in her breakfast on a dingy plate.

Alright now; sit up and eat up, the woman said, wheeling the cart toward the bed.

Mary was a plump woman of around thirty, who looked much older around the eyes. She was always the same–her hair tightly wound, dressed in her uniform of a long black dress and white apron, topped with the typical white hat common to those sharing her profession. Wren did not think poorly of her, but felt that the woman had an oddly shaped shadow.

Wren had seen Mary every day for months, yet there was never much warmth between the two of them. They never engaged in small talk or even shared much eye contact. For Mary, it was strictly business, and Wren didn’t have much reason to converse. She was unfit to talk to.

She was a murderess, after all.

Wren often toyed with asking Mary what she thought of her, but feared the answer. The nurses were all certain they knew the truth about her story, and Wren understood there was nothing left but for her to do as they said–to be a good patient and pray for deliverance.

Forgiveness waits beyond the confession of sins. That is what they would have me believe.

Once she’d swallowed the food down like Mary expected, the nurse helped her dress in a clean gown she’d brought in, which was plain and very similar to what the rest of the inmates wore. Mary maneuvered her as if she was a doll instead of a girl, but Wren could not protest. She had as much of a life as a doll had.

When Mary was done and had wheeled the tray out to leave her alone again, Wren sat on the end of the bed for a long time, staring absently at her shadow that was cast against the far wall. She’d often wondered about it–whether it was a shadow as she had once thought, or if her mimic had returned with her here, but she never saw it move out of sync, and so she had no proof either way.

Where are you, Rifter? Why did you leave me here? Haven’t I suffered long enough?

She remembered the last time she had seen him, when he’d looked into her eyes–when he’d made her so many promises. I could never forget you, he’d said. Of all the things he’d sworn to remember, Wren had not suspected that she would be the thing that would disappear. Hadn’t the other boys–Sly, Finn, Toss–remembered her? Why hadn’t they reminded Rifter that he needed to go after her?

Maybe I will die before I have answers. I will waste away here.

It was at that moment that the cell door squealed as it opened once again, and Mary leaned her head inside.

Come on now, Wren, she said with firm insistence. It’s time.

2

In the drab office, a pair of large windows let in the gray light of the outside world. The buildings of London stretched out in the distance, each doing its part to block out the sun. The city served as an endless barrier to keep Wren from the world of her dreams, gradually closing in, reminding her that she had no world at all to belong to now.

Wren sat before Doctor Everett Witherspoon, his half-moon glasses turned downward toward the journal on his desk. Wren didn’t think he was a bad man, but she couldn’t say that she enjoyed spending time with him. He was always judging her like the rest. She didn’t want to be judged. She wanted to be left alone.

You haven’t written much lately, he commented, no doubt noticing the sentence she had begun last night, only to leave off without the desire to finish the thought.

Wren did not respond. She watched Witherspoon open her casebook with steady fingers. The leather was worn around the edges from being opened and shut so many times. He must have known every word of it by now, having put most of the entries there himself, but she kept silent as he looked over the pages.

Her eyes drifted over his shoulder, watching his shadow against the wall behind him, reflected by the light of day. It was faint and still–clearly not a secret imp. When Witherspoon finally lifted his brown eyes to hers, she knew what he would say before he opened his mouth.

I want to start at the beginning, he said. Wren wasn’t surprised. He often liked to start at the beginning. Can we do that?

She nodded. Wren had been through this so many times that the sessions no longer fazed her. Some of those memories had been difficult at first–some still were–but she knew that being agreeable with the doctor was better than trying to oppose him. She would comply.

When you were thirteen, something happened at home, he reminded her as if she might have forgotten. What was that?

Wren knew the answers to these questions as well as she knew her name. She always gave him the same replies, and though he might have been waiting for the day that she would slip, she would not. She knew her own story. It was all that had been looping through her head for years.

My father had an affair, she stated in the factual tone of the shameless.

How did that affect your family?

It ruined us, she told him flatly as if the words were rehearsed. I never knew her name–the other woman, I mean. Father met her at the bank. She was married as well, and everyone was spreading the rumors. My father lost his job and couldn’t find decent employment because of the scandal. We ran out of money.

And what about your mother? How did she react to the betrayal?

Wren remembered it all clearly, as though it had not been six years since she had seen her birth parents. When the ordeal had come to light, she remembered how her mother had not said a word. She had not tried to fight with Wren’s father about the rumors.

She just…went away.

My mother shut herself up. She grew distant from us.

From you and your brothers, even young Max, Witherspoon confirmed. He was a mere babe at the time, wasn’t he?

Yes.

All of those responsibilities fell to you then, didn’t they? You had to grow up too soon.

Wren looked into his eyes as he watched her expectantly, awaiting her answer–her admittance or her revelation; she couldn’t say which.

I suppose, she replied finally, lowering her eyes, but she knew that he was right in a sense. She remembered how her life had been–hadn’t been given the chance to forget. Max had been an infant at the time. She remembered the sound of him crying upstairs–after they had lost their nanny–and their mother simply hadn’t known what to do. Wren hadn’t either, but she had learned quickly, for she was the only one who would respond to the boy’s wailing cries.

Max, my little boy, where are you now? I hope you’re safe. I know you must be. Wren often wondered about him, but she knew where he had gone, and could only find comfort in the thought that both of her brothers were in better places than she was now.

Let’s skip forward a bit, shall we? Witherspoon said, interrupting her thoughts. You said that your family ran out of money. What happened then?

My parents had to give us up. They took us to Miss Nora’s Home.

The orphanage, correct? What was life there like?

She had always been a bit torn about the Home before, but given the chance now, she might have gone back to it with the promise to never stray again.

But I can’t go back there, she thought. Not ever.

Most of us were sent to work in factories during the day, but at least we had a place to return at night.

That’s what you told the others, isn’t it? They looked up to you, didn’t they?

Though Wren had tried to keep her distance from the other orphans in her days after returning from Nevermor, it was true that those children had always looked up to her. She had cooked meals for them and joined them in games. She had gathered them in the closet when there was a storm; told them stories. She still remembered the way many of their faces had looked as they’d smiled at her gratefully.

They had names. Polly, Liam, Lewis… They had thought a lot of her.

Yes, they did, she said, lowering her head.

But you wanted out, didn’t you? the doctor said, leading her on. You were finally able to escape. Where did you go?

Wren lifted her blue eyes. This was, perhaps, the turning point. It was the fork in the path, often presented but never taken. One direction might have brought her out of the woods while the other led her deeper into the depths until she was utterly lost in the dark tangles of her impossible reality. Perhaps it was true that if she’d only changed her story here, she might have been able to alter her situation. At the same time, it might have been the only difference between the asylum and the noose.

Should I speak the truth or a lie? Should I deny or confess? Wren looked toward her shadow as if it would give her some cue, but it did not move, sitting as still as she was to gaze back at her.

Wren? Witherspoon drew her back with his voice, watching her carefully. She blinked, looked at his face, and then took a breath.

I didn’t go anywhere, she said, and she saw his eyes widen a bit–but she wasn’t finished. I was taken away–to Nevermor.

His shoulders slumped. He had anticipated too strongly, but Wren could not change her story now. She’d told nothing but the truth.

Nevermor, the doctor repeated, discouraged, but he humored her. As you describe it, Nevermor is an island beyond the sea of dreams, full of fantasies.

Yes, she said quietly, as if the answer was going to turn around and bite her.

There, you made a new life, Witherspoon said, getting back on track. You made a life with a boy, I understand.

We called him the Rifter, Wren said lowly. Sometimes it pained her to say his name.

This Rifter, who you have spoken so fondly of in the past–the two of you had a relationship. Would it be going too far to ask if it was intimate? Wren’s eyes widened as she looked at him, and he paused a moment before probing further. Was it of a sexual nature?

Wren tensed at that and felt her face grow hot. As much as she believed she loved Rifter–even still–their love had not been perfect, but she remembered the way she had kissed him with her eyes shut so tightly. She remembered the night in the dark of a tent when she’d said she loved him. He had wanted to have her, but she had pushed him away.

I wasn’t ready.

No, she answered finally, averting her eyes.

Yet it was very much like a marriage in your eyes, wasn’t it? Didn’t you say so yourself once? And like your parents’ marriage, it was ruined by the denial of physical intimacy, isn’t that right? Wasn’t your mother depressed after Maxwell was born? Her relationship with your father was scarred. He sought love elsewhere.

Wren didn’t answer, clenching her fists against her legs. This was an attack. Witherspoon had never done this to her before. Had she told him these things? She had recounted the story so many times in the past that she sometimes wasn’t sure of the exact details she’d given.

You told me once that there was an instance in which Rifter was unfaithful to you–with some sort of savage, Tribal maiden, I believe. Don’t you think that event mirrors exactly what you believe your father did to your mother?

Wren had never heard this angle before, and she wasn’t quite sure what he was trying to prove.

It doesn’t matter, she uttered, feeling defensive.

Witherspoon was able to see her unease and sat back a bit, letting the pressure off.

I shouldn’t have said that. I apologize, he told her, withdrawing. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about your time in Nevermor.

Wren was able to exhale. She felt her muscles relax, making her as putty in her chair, though she hardly moved at all.

It was better in the beginning, she said absently, becoming so lost in those old memories that he had to call her back.

Yet even in those first days, there were dangers, correct? In fact, everything in the world was a danger to you, I believe.

Yes, those first days had only been better if she could get past the threat of the pirates that had wanted to rape her, the mermaids that wanted to drown her, the hateful savages that might have killed her without blinking, not to mention a nightmare monster around every corner–and that wretched fairy with murder in her heart, the same which had eventually caused the deaths of the rest of them.

But why would Whisper do that? Why? Those children did nothing. Was it because of me?

Wren had thought that she and Rifter’s vindictive fairy companion had come to a truce near the end, but there was no proof of it now–not after what had happened two years ago.

I’ll accept that life was good to you for a while, Witherspoon said, leading her on. You were with your brothers. You made friends with those other boys–Rifter’s ‘Wolf Pack’. You were in love. But circumstances changed. Tell me.

Yes, things changed…

It started with the storm, she said, recalling it. Nevermor is a world of dreams and Rifter is the guardian of it, but when he dreams, sometimes things happen to the world. The landscape might change without warning, and another thing that often happens when he dreams is that the Scourge comes back.

And the Scourge is –

A terrifying man, Wren interrupted, meeting the doctor’s eyes. Rifter’s worst nightmare. He changed everything–changed Rifter. Things got worse. There was conflict and war. There was fire and darkness. But in the end, Rifter conquered. He faced his fear and killed the Scourge. He promised me that things were going to get better.

That was when he brought you back here. With Maxwell.

Yes. So I could make sure he was safe from that life, Wren admitted. Her choice with her baby brother Max had been a difficult one–letting him go off to another mother who would raise him. She had cried every night for a while, wondering where he was and praying that he hadn’t forgotten her, but eventually, she had managed to let him go. She hadn’t wanted Nevermor to corrupt him at such a young age. He’d deserved better.

Wren had become firm in her agreement, but Witherspoon’s next question caught her off guard.

What happened to Henry?

She felt an abrupt choking sensation in the back of her throat when he said that name. Her other brother, Henry… Rifter had renamed him Fang.

He was given the highest honor.

I don’t want to talk about Henry, she said solidly. Even though time had passed, it still felt like a sword in her chest.

Fair enough, Witherspoon said, making a note in the sideline of her casebook. Then he started off on another line of thought. Rifter left you here with a promise that he would return for you in a few days, but he never came back, did he? Why do you think that is?

He has a tendency to forget things, Wren said swiftly, feeling a bit frustrated by now. She thought that he must have noticed. It’s the fairy’s fault. She takes his memories away; sometimes even the small, insignificant ones.

You’ve told me before that he has to be willing to let go of the memory first.

Usually, she confirmed.

Then how does that explain why he might have forgotten you?

Wren caught her breath, staring. She’d tried not to think on it, but of course she had considered that Rifter had wanted to forget her–that he was angry with her, or had decided he didn’t care about her after all. Was she so forgettable? Wren let her gaze drift down to the floor, wondering how Witherspoon liked the sight of her heart ripping in half.

Let’s talk about that night, he interrupted, writing a few more notes across the page. Tell me what happened.

Wren closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of a stray sunbeam cross her eyelids. Not even the light could aid her. In this, she was utterly alone.

I was waiting for Rifter to come back for me. He said he would come back. He promised not to forget. I waited for a long time at the orphanage. I was even put into another job–domestic work–and yet he didn’t return. Then one night after nearly two years, it was Whisper who came back instead–the fairy wisp. She woke up all the children, and they were very eager to see her. They looked to me for guidance and I… She paused, shaking her head. I don’t know why I trusted her. I hardly remember it, as if it happened to someone else.

This was true. Every moment that she could recall seemed so far away that it was as though another person had lived it and she was merely watching, just as she had once seen Rifter’s memories.

What did you tell them? the doctor asked, leaning forward again to hear her confession like a priest through the lattice.

I told them to follow her, Wren said sorrowfully, that she was going to help us get to Nevermor.

Then what happened?

Wren was breathing harder now, reliving the moment–the vertigo of being on the roof as the wind blew all around her, the weight of the storm that was gathering overhead–

She led us to the roof. She pretended to give us a blessing so that we could fly.

Wren knew that she should never have believed this. One could not merely fly to Nevermor. Only Rifter could go to and fro as he wished, and anyone he brought back with him had to be unconscious or blessed to pass through the veil that divided this world from that.

I knew it. Why didn’t I see through that lie? It was my fault.

And they jumped, didn’t they, Witherspoon said, guessing that she would not say it herself. But you didn’t jump.

No, I didn’t. Wren thought she had regret in her own voice.

Why?

Even now, Wren could still recall it. Each one of those children had jumped off the roof. She had been meant to join them. It was only several moments afterward that they realized that they were falling instead of flying. It must have been the sound of their screams that had snapped her out of her own trance, teetering on the edge of the roof just before stepping off herself. By then, Whisper had been gone–gone like she had never been there.

She had tried to save me for last.

Rifter didn’t come, the doctor said, snapping her back. He didn’t come to deliver you from that, or take you back.

No, he didn’t. Wren kept quiet and looked at the floor.

It has been nearly two years since then and he still hasn’t come for you.

Sometimes it’s hard for him to remember things, she repeated more forcefully, even though she thought she’d made that clear.

You don’t have to defend the boy, Wren, Witherspoon said calmly, shaking his head. The answer is simple. You have grown up and he has not. Yet perhaps you have a point: you should allow yourself to forget about him as obviously he has forgotten you.

Wren’s eyes rounded like moons at this assertion. As many times as they had talked about it, how could he even suggest this? Though her fear of outgrowing Rifter was very real–that he would cast her away because she had broken the Vow–she could not embrace the idea of life without him.

No, she told him bluntly, her voice as level as ever. I could never give up on him.

Witherspoon leaned back, staring at her a moment before rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. She wondered what he was thinking, but guessed that she knew. He had found hope in her once–perhaps the only thing that kept her here–and he was losing it. She wondered if she ought to be worried, but it was fleeting. She had determined long ago that she had to keep up appearances here. That was her only hope of survival.

That will do for today, Wren, he said. There was a sigh in his voice–a note of despair–but she could not be concerned. All she had to care about was herself.

Wren waited patiently as he scribbled in his final notes of the session, and all the while she sat, rigid and still, staring at his shadow.

Chapter Two

1

Wren peered into the cage, watching the birds hop from perch to perch. They seemed content enough, even though they were locked away behind steel bars that would not let them soar.

Yet if they were free, there would be dangers for them, Wren knew. Perhaps it is best that they are caged. Behind these bars, they are protected.

The inmates were allowed to enjoy the birds, but were quickly chastised if they tried to open the cage doors. Still, Wren often reached her fingers through the bars to feel the soft feathers as their warm little bodies darted past. They were flickers of life in this colorless place. The birds talked happily together and none of it was directed at her. She didn’t have to respond.

Two years, she reflected. Two years in this cage. The irony of her name had made her sigh helplessly on more than one occasion.

Wren stared at the birds now, absently watching the blur of their colors as they swooped by. Across the room, a few female patients were staring into adjacent cages–some muttering quietly, some licking their chapped lips. Sometimes they tried to open the doors and grab the birds inside, but there were always nurses nearby to scold them. They were constantly supervised as if they were children.

We are not children. We are like the birds, Wren mused. All of us are birds, cooped up together.

Wren lifted her eyes through the cage to peer across the room, observing those who shared the ward with her. The girls housed at the asylum were of different kinds and from different places, with assorted coloring and breeding. Some of them had been normal in the beginning, but years of confinement had broken them, and even the improvements to treatment had not been able to fix their tangled minds. Others were just on the verge of slipping away–like herself–while a handful or two were complete, raving lunatics.

There was Trudy, for example, who screamed every night about the wolves in the walls–who had tried to cut into another girl with a razor to expose the secret monster inside her. Trudy had always been that way, since her first day here. She was no worse, but not yet improved. There were a few others like Trudy, but there were also more docile types that had never been meant for a place like this.

Clea, with her lovely red hair, had been married to an older man who’d been very jealous of her and had eventually become so paranoid of her flirting that he’d sent her here as punishment, claiming incurable promiscuity–at least, that was what Wren had heard the nurses say.

Yes, we are exactly like the birds.

Wren rested near the cage, her head on her arm and fingers outstretched through the bars. A young cardinal hopped down and pecked at her finger before retreating. She was languid now, wishing to drift away. Through a dream fog in her mind, she saw the face of a boy, distant but emerging slowly in her memory. She reached for him–

With a short gasp, Wren snapped awake, suddenly aware of a presence nearby. She lifted her eyes to see that another girl had approached her, looming now like a crooked gargoyle on the eave of a cathedral. Wren knew the girl’s face–pale and homely with the sunken eyes of the abused. Her name was Adele, and though Wren had never spoken to her much, she knew something of the girl’s behavior.

Adele was of the sort that needed constant attention, and when she’d chosen a target, she would not relent until she got the acknowledgment she desired. She often added the other patients’ problems to her own just for sport, and was an annoyance to most who dealt with her.

Seeing that she was being focused on, Wren tried to appease the girl with a short smile before averting her eyes, but she had known it would not work to send Adele away.

You talk to the fairies, Adele said, chirping as happily as the birds. "I saw a fairy."

Wren didn’t respond, unsure how she felt about the comment. She had already talked about this once today for the sake of appearances, and she didn’t want to go into it again, yet Adele kept staring at her relentlessly with large, hollow eyes.

It was in my room, the fairy was, Adele went on, nodding furiously to confirm her tale. "It was black like a shadow, but it wasn’t. It moved on its own. It was a boy!"

She giggled deliriously at that, covering her mouth and looking about to see if a nurse had heard her, but Wren only wanted to tell her that it wasn’t a fairy she had seen. She wanted to turn her face away and ignore the other girl, annoyed that she was being mocked.

But wait… A shadow? A boy? Could Adele’s conversation be more than a cry for attention? If she did see what she claimed, then…

What did it look like exactly? Wren asked lowly. Adele seemed nearly overwhelmed to have gotten a reaction. She was positively quivering with excitement.

It was a boy, Adele confirmed again, sticking a finger in her ear absently. He was hovering over my bed. I watched him for a long time, but he didn’t move much. Eventually, he went away.

Wren rose up, interested now. She moved closer to Adele, lowering her voice to a whisper in hopes that the nurses would not hear their conversation.

And it was like a shadow? Wren asked quietly, her heart beating faster. Did he say anything to you–this fairy?

No, Adele said hesitantly, ashamed that she had to admit it, but she perked up again directly after, but it did remind me of my dream!

Wren felt her face grow hot, wondering what had brought on the flare until she realized that she was feeling the heat of jealousy. Did this girl deserve to dream more than she did? Was it possible that Adele had seen Nevermor when Wren could not find it?

What dream? she asked firmly, trying to keep her focus on the girl’s darting eyes.

Adele’s face lit with pleasure. "I saw an ocean–it was a black ocean!–and I was walking along the shore. I was alone, but then I saw someone and I went toward him…"

Adele hesitated, looking past Wren as a distant look came into her eyes. Her chest began to heave with short, rapid breaths as she recalled it.

He looked at me, she said, shuddering. "His eyes were on fire! They were on fire!"

The girl had become irate, a look of horror in her eyes as she professed this truth. Before Wren could step away, Adele had gripped her arms, shaking her as if to punish her lack of understanding.

"Burning! she screamed, her eyes like deep pools. They were burning!"

Wren tried to push Adele away from her, but the girl’s grip was viselike, her jagged nails scraping her flesh. She did not find relief until a nurse and orderly came forward, taking the girl by the arms, talking her down. Their voices managed to soothe her enough that Adele simply reverted to a state of bewilderment, as if she’d not remembered her outburst. Wren, however, wanted no part of it.

She slipped away behind the cage, waiting for her heart to slow as Adele was led back to her cell. What the girl had said troubled Wren more than the violent outburst. Had she truly seen a shadow that was not attached to anything? Was it the truth, or could she cast it off as the ranting of a lunatic? Sadly, there was no way to know. There never was here, but today Wren was left with a feeling that she’d never been willing to accommodate before.

Is that what I sound like to them? she wondered.

Everything she thought she had known about her life came back to her now and settled in her stomach, making her feel sick. Around her, the birds continued to chirp, their lives undisturbed by the incident. They were without care or concern. Wren envied them.

2

The hours passed, and another day had managed to age her. Wren lay in the asylum bed, eyes closed but not asleep, yet to anyone who might pass by, not awake. She was covered up to her chin with the thin, dingy blankets, but she was far from restful. This day had opened up a familiar door in her mind, and she had foolishly stepped through it. Her head was flooded with memories of the past–of Nevermor.

The ocean and the beach; the way the forest had smelled in the morning; the dreams that formed the land and the nightmares that threatened it. She thought of dances by firelight as the boys ran wild, drunk off their kills, their faces painted with blood. They had all seemed so happy with that life. Wren had been disapproving of some of their behaviors–the cursing and the blood rituals–but she would give anything to have that back now.

Rifter realized that there was more to life than being young and reckless forever. He was ready to change. But how much can I expect? Will he think I’ve outgrown him? It’s been four years…

"Are you awake?" The ghostly whisper slipped to her through the dark, clenching her heart and making her shiver. Wren came back to herself to see a deep shadow treading over the stone floor, moving closer to her bed.

Who’s there?

She was startled, uncertain for a moment before she recognized the voice coming from within the dark shape.

I saw the fairy again.

Adele. Wren could not see the girl’s features in the darkness, but her height and outline revealed her identity. Even knowing who it was, Wren could think of a few things less unsettling than waking up to another inmate standing over her bed.

How did you get into my room? she asked cautiously.

I stole the nurse’s key, Adele said happily, holding up the dangling piece of metal on a chain. Come on! It’ll get away!

Adele darted back toward the hallway where the door was standing open, unlocked, and by the time Wren was able to rise up after her, the girl had already slipped out.

"Wait!" Wren hissed, stepping into her slippers. Though she had an opportunity to leave her cell unrestricted, her fear of being caught was very real. While here, she had tried her best to stay in line, but she was not oblivious to the punishments that might have awaited her. She knew what happened to girls who were unruly.

But the shadow. I have to know. That was all the persuasion she needed to follow Adele out.

By the time she had gotten into the hallway, the other girl had already slipped out of sight. Wren did not have much time to be cautious. She moved swiftly into the darkened hall.

The unmapped corridors of the female ward were frightening in the dark, the bowels of a beast that had swallowed her. Wren had never been out alone and the cage which housed her was suddenly much too big. Her breathing quickened. She felt faint.

Just take a deep breath. She followed her own direction. Be calm and do what you must do.

At that, she was able to take a few steps forward. She needed to see what Adele had to show her–to judge it for what it was. Perhaps it was a figment of the girl’s imagination, but there was a possibility that it might have been more.

This way! Adele’s whispery voice drifted to her from around the corner, sounding like an omen, but Wren could not turn away.

She crouched low, hoping that she wouldn’t be seen by any of the other patients as she passed. There were small windows in the doors, and some of the girls were very much like her: they never slept. Even now she could hear some of them groaning, muttering to themselves as they paced. Wren was unsure of her performance, but she kept herself down and moved forward, her pale gown clinging to her legs.

Following after Adele, Wren left the ward and passed into another part of the building, where she began to feel even more nervous. There were voices ahead that made Wren want to turn around, but they managed to find a clear path around a pair of orderlies who were busy making lewd jokes and laughing heartily. Her heart thudded until the voices slipped behind her.

Edging around the corner, she saw Adele moving forward. Wren knew these hallways well, and she knew where they led, for she was guided along this way several times a week.

Witherspoon’s office…

Are you certain that the fairy went this way? Wren asked, using terms Adele had related. I’m not sure if this is a good idea.

Wren began to suspect that this was not about the shadow any longer, but merely Adele’s private excursion. She did not want any part of that, but her neurotic companion would not back down.

Do you want to see it or not?

Adele disregarded her then, moving to the door–behind which Wren had emptied most of her secrets and memories–turning the key in the lock. The hinges groaned as it opened to reveal the smallest glow from a gaslight, lit and waiting for someone to come in and give it more life. Wren took in a shaky sigh and followed Adele inside, preferring that to being caught in the hallway when a watchman came by.

The office was just as she had seen earlier, only darker, with the windows hidden by curtains, but it seemed unforgiving now, like a funeral parlor. The walls of this box did not care about her fears or her crimes. This was the end of the line.

Do you see it anywhere? Adele whispered. Wren had already been looking tentatively around the room, searching for any sign of dark movement, but nothing seemed out of place.

I’ve never been in this office at night, Adele said rapidly, rubbing her feet along the carpet in long strides. She was clearly thrilled beyond measure. Do you think he’s handsome? Dr. Witherspoon, I mean. I told him once that he had a nice smile, and he ignored me! I wonder if he’s married…

Adele went on, but Wren was no longer listening. She had not seen any suspicious shadows, and she had begun to suspect that this was all a waste of time. She would be happier back in her cell, reconsidering her misfortune.

What’s that?

Adele was chirping on in the background, touching everything that was not locked away as if they were on holiday instead of trespassing. As Wren stepped near the desk, she saw that among the many books piled near the edges, there was a lone journal resting there. It was not difficult for her to recognize the worn edges and the scribbled writing on the cover.

It was her own casebook. Witherspoon had left it out after their session that day, perhaps.

What does he think of me? she wondered now, touching the rough face of the book.

She’d always believed that she had never wanted to know what the doctor wrote about her–that it didn’t matter–but as she looked down at the journal now, the temptation was too much. Without more thought, Wren was lifting the cover, turning through the pages of notes about her stories and her supposed condition. The words of his judgment cut across her vision.

Delusional…withdrawn…often catatonic…obsessive… In denial; fails to acknowledge her crime, but continues to tell her story consistently…

Wren turned to the last written page–his thoughts after today’s meeting.

In the years she has been here, she has never acted violently, but I find myself growing tired of the same stories. There has been no progress in my time with her. I have already been considering more extreme measures, and now I believe that I must go forward. Something must be done to free her from her dream world. She has to be woken up.

Wren’s fingers grew weak. The casebook slipped from her hands and closed on the desk. Extreme measures? What did that mean? The possibility of undesirable treatment rolled past her mind. Hydrotherapy, please not that… Did Witherspoon truly think her case deserved worse? More importantly, was the threat of this worth breaking away from her story? Would the punishment on the other side of committing murder be worse?

Wren was jolted, barely able to realize that her breath was coming in shallow gasps, making her feel lightheaded. She had completely forgotten about Adele’s fairy until a darkness passed in front of the gaslight, leading Wren to jerk her head up.

Her first fear was that they had been caught. She would be confined to a tiny prison as punishment before finding out the truth of her ‘extreme measures’.

Did you see it? Adele whispered excitedly. The fairy! I told you!

Wren tried to follow the movement with her eyes, but it was only a flicker across the stone wall. The shape was indistinguishable, but there had been movement, undeniably. Something had been there!

I think it went out! Adele twittered. Come on!

Adele had darted back into the hallway before Wren could raise her voice in protest. Didn’t the girl know that they had to be careful of the orderlies and night nurses? And to be dealing with a mimic… That was not to be taken lightly.

Wren took the time to peer beyond the door briefly before moving out herself. Adele was already near the end of the corridor, moving at a full run to round the corner.

"Adele, wait!" Her call fell on deaf ears.

Her panic increasing, Wren quickly closed the door of Witherspoon’s office to give the illusion that it was undisturbed. Adele had vanished before Wren had picked up her feet to follow. Her heart was pounding against her chest with heavy punches, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her thoughts were meshed together in a sick scramble as she rounded the corner–

There was a shriek. A groan. A resounding thud and then a sigh of silence. Wren slowed her footsteps, listening to the sounds of her own fear. She wanted to call out for Adele but could not find her voice.

You should turn around. Turn around, go back to your cell and lock yourself in!

Instead, she crept forward. Wren made it to the corner to peer carefully beyond, and gasped when she saw the heap in the middle of the hallway. The folds of Adele’s gown were swimming in the dim firelight, but her body was still.

Adele? Wren had heard nothing; she’d seen even less, yet here was her companion crumpled on the floor, unmoving.

What happened!

Wren ran to her, pulse pounding in her ears. She stooped low to pull the girl up, but Adele was dead weight in her arms. Wren gave her a shake, but did not even notice the warm red substance spreading over her fingers.

Adele, wake up! Wren urged, fearing the consequences–always those–but she didn’t get a chance to search for wounds before a sudden chill locked her muscles.

Someone is behind me…

She could feel a heavy presence looming over her shoulder, staring her down, coming closer –

Wren whipped her head around to face her stalker as a flood of lamplight spilled around the corner, illuminating her where she was crouched.

There they are, she heard a voice say. They didn’t get far.

Beyond the light were several shadowy figures, but she did not fear that these were additional mimics come to aid their brother. No, these figures were her salvation and her condemnation.

Wait, came a hesitant voice from within the group. "Is that blood?"

Stay back, Janette. Let’s have a look at what’s happened…

Wren looked down at the situation she was in. She imagined the faces behind the lamps, looking at her like she had finally revealed her true nature–unleashed the twisted monster within that she had been covering with a melancholy face. Adele had been hurt–somehow–and Wren was the only one around.

They will blame me for this. They already have.

There was no way to correct this–no way out. Wren sat docilely on the floor as the orderlies came to collect her. Surrounding her in the hall, their shadows laughed.

Chapter Three

1

Witherspoon was pacing–pacing like a lion at the forefront of its cage, anxious and frustrated because, very much like a wildcat in a circus, he was caught. Wren had told him what had happened–the truth and not a lie–though doubtless he thought differently about the ordeal. She could tell that he was not pleased, but he had not said much to her through it all, now stuck in his own mind as he considered her tale.

Wren sat meekly in front of his desk, fearing what sort of judgment he might pass down on her until she could no longer bear the silence.

Is Adele–I mean, is she alright?

The sound of her voice seemed to startle him. He met her eyes as if surprised to find her in the room.

She has a few cuts, but yes, she will be fine. He considered her a moment before continuing. "Wren, are you certain that it happened as you said? Try to think clearly, now."

She had told him everything exactly as it had happened–of how Adele had stolen the key and they had gone seeking a shadow that was not attached to anyone; and of how Adele had been mysteriously attacked. Wren had told him how it had happened and yet he was waiting for her to tell him something different. She felt discouraged, though not out of guilt for lying, but for the burden of the truth.

I told you everything, she confirmed. The words were thick in her mouth, like old porridge.

Once again, Witherspoon went back to his pacing until finally he’d suffered enough. He turned to her, eyes full of new vigor–or a last desperate hope.

Wren, can we talk frankly a moment? he asked, crossing his arms. He didn’t wait for her to answer before he began. When I first chose you and kept you from being sent away, it was because I saw something in you–a potential for improvement–but as many times as we’ve spoken, you still refuse to realize the truth. You seem so lucid, very unlike the others, and yet you refuse to see what I’ve been trying to show you. I’m going to try another tactic this time, Wren. I’m going to tell you the truth very bluntly.

She looked at him steadily, awaiting his diagnosis.

"Nevermor is not real, Wren, he said gently. The Rifter and those boys are not real! Nothing that you have described to me actually happened. It is impossible that shadows are alive and that people can fly. It defies all logic, and I am quite accomplished as far as logic, let me tell you."

Wren stared at him blankly. She heard what he was saying, but she wasn’t willing to respond. She had told her story many times and no one ever believed her. Of course he would try to translate the impossible into something that he could understand.

You had an unfortunate life, abandoned as you were, forced to grow up too quickly, he said. She thought she heard a bit of sympathy. You’re not to be blamed for that. Your mind was overwhelmed and it created a new world for itself.

His voice sounded so convincing, there was no wonder he believed it himself.

"The Rifter and his actions toward you are a reflection of your father. He was your savior but he betrayed you. The Rifter’s ability to fly and his strength to battle the nightmares indicate what you wish you could do for yourself, and that is why you were drawn to him.

"The boys of the Wolf Pack represent your fears about your brothers and the possibilities of what they might have become if they’d lived an ungoverned life.

"This Scourge is a dark and evil man–an enemy. Didn’t you say that the Rifter cut off his hand? No, what you’re thinking of is something else. I believe this man is a mixture of your own father and another man that you were afraid of. Do you remember that day at the factory?"

Of course Wren remembered it. They had been young workers at the cotton mill to bring in money for Miss Nora, and they were supervised there by a wicked, balding hawk named Reynald Worthy. They’d called him the Devil behind his back. On her last day there, Wren had pushed him into the machine to save her brother Henry from being beaten to death. Because of her actions, the machine had torn off several of the man’s fingers. His blood had fed the fibers. Wren was not sorry for that, but yet there was something else that she was in agony for.

Henry… Even after four years, the pain of what had happened to him still lingered. She had been alone with it for so long. Wren frowned. Her lips quivered, but she did not cry.

"That fairy wisp called Whisper is your own jealousy. She is all your old memories that you put away from yourself, Witherspoon continued. You have thrown the blame off on a creature of fantasy, but Wren, it is you!"

She almost pitied him for his theories, but she had never told him so. She knew what had happened. There was one thing, however, that he could not explain away. Perhaps he had forgotten it, but Wren knew what it was.

If what you say is true, Wren said quietly, "then what of this?"

She brushed back her hair alongside her temple, revealing a white scar in the shape of a tiny handprint. The outline of it was so perfect that it could hardly be disputed–unless of course one did not believe in fairies, as clearly he did not.

You were born with that scar, Wren, Witherspoon said after a pause. That’s the only explanation.

He claimed it was a birthmark, and while there was no one to verify that or otherwise, Wren knew that she had gotten it when Whisper had burned Rifter’s lost memories across her mind. Wren could not remember what those had been, but she knew that they were horrible. She never wanted to see them again.

Briefly, Wren weighed her options. If she gave him what he wanted to hear, she might avoid those extreme measures he had mentioned in the journal, but yet she would be revealing herself to be false. The decision quickly made her head hurt, and she refused to dwell on it. In this moment, she only wanted to be honest with herself.

You’re wrong, doctor, she said calmly, meeting his eyes again, her own filled with shimmering sadness, and I can’t give up now. I’ve waited so long. If my time in Nevermor taught me anything, it’s that it’s important to fight, and whether one does it with swords or words or strength of mind, I have to stand up for myself. I can’t stop believing that he’ll come for me. If I do, then what do I have left?

Witherspoon stared at her as if a new woman had suddenly come out to sit before him. Wren was not willing to turn away from her truth. It was the only thing she had to cling to. She had done nothing wrong, except perhaps been too young for a dark world and yet too old for a boy who hadn’t been able to love her like she’d needed.

Wren, the doctor said gently, looking into her eyes, somewhere inside, you must not believe it yourself–

She didn’t let him get further than that.

I haven’t been sleeping again, she confessed abruptly. Could you please give me something so that I can sleep?

Wren didn’t look at him as she made her request. She was not normally hurt by the things he said, or anyone else for that matter, but this time felt different. This time, perhaps she had begun to truly feel that first hint of hopelessness.

She knew that Witherspoon was watching her, but she was done talking. Eventually, he had to give up on her response.

Of course, Wren, he relented. He lifted his eyes above her toward Mary, who was waiting at the door, giving her a short nod. I’ll send something for you later.

Wren felt a light touch on her arm, and she rose obediently to go. Though her mouth was silent, her thoughts were reeling once again with the circumstances that might have kept Rifter from her. She knew the simple answer. Of course he must’ve forgotten, but he was her only hope of being delivered, and she could not cease to look for him.

Wren had always wanted to believe in hope, and