Chapter SevenHer shoulder ached abominably. Lucy wriggled, seeking a comfortable indentation in her feather mattress. Her pillow, too, was lumpy and hard, unyielding to the butting of her head. She raised a fist to pound it and redistribute the goosefeather filling – and felt something stay her arm in its downward swing.
“Wisha, girl, ye'll hurt yeself.”
That's not Geoffrey. What's he doing in my bedroom, anyway? No, Geoffrey left, he isn't at home any more. “Father?” Lucy's sleepy, inquiring tones met with silence.
She stretched out an arm and encountered not soft, warm coverlets but pebbles and sharp bracken stalks beneath her hand. Her eyelids blinked open. Her bedroom ceiling had lifted off. There was blue sky above her, with wispy white clouds like streaks of spilt milk. What had h
