One day, a thought hit her hard, like a slap in the face, sending a shiver over her body. A ghastly picture of trickling water spilling over a pair of cold purple lips lodged in her mind.
Water in the grave.
The thought came to her over and over again, never letting her rest.
“Thorn!” she called out urgently.
“Yes, miss,” he said, striding into the room.
“We have to do something. There’s water in the grave.”
“Water in the grave, miss?”
“Yes. Don’t ask me how I know, but somehow I do.”
“Who’s grave, miss?”
“I-I don’t know. Sarafina’s, I suppose. All I know is there’s water in the grave. We have to have it removed, dried out, whatever, I don’t know.”
Later that day, she stood at the window watching a crowd of men working over a grave with antiquated equipment she knew would someday
