TIME WITHOUT SPACE.
Pathways, branching, splitting, curling in on themselves. . .
Not paths—threads, tangling. I need to do something, to go somewhere.
I don’t exist. Only the threads exist.
Ash is Ash. Cole is Cole. Ange is Ange . . .
Flames, rising like a tide, crashing over everything, scorching—
Not scorching. Pleasantly warm. The light is bright without burning. Soft, dry ground beneath me with ticking strands of tall grasses and the fluttering edges of exotically scented wildflowers kissing my skin. I sit up, shaking off the nightmarish vision.
Ash walks toward me, bringing with him the sharp tang of sea air and a rocky cliff overlooking the waves to replace the meadow. “Sleep well?”
“Ravel betrayed us.” My voice is flat, my eyes dry. I am stone and I will remain stone until
