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Faintly, Tabby says hello. The awful silence breaks with the sound of a low exhalation, and then a single word, murmured like a prayer. “Tabitha.” Tabby’s arms break out in gooseflesh. Her eyes close. She stops breathing. I watch all that with impotent rage, not understanding what the hell is happening, only that I want it to stop. Now. I squeeze her hand again, but hers has turned limp and clammy in mine. Perfectly still, Tabby sits. The air crackles with electricity. “You’ve made me wait,” says Søren, “a very long time.” His voice has the quality of a lullaby, soft and stroking, meant to soothe. It carries a faint and indefinable accent. Not British, but something equally refined. Aristocratic. Somehow it reminds me of winter snowfall, when the air is sharp and cold and everything
- Writer
