The nightmare always starts the same way.
Anne walks through the meadow toward her cottage. Then she sees the green fire and she's running, but her legs won't move fast enough. She bursts through the door. Merida lies dead. Harold lies dead. Thomas lies dead.
But this time, when she reaches the nursery, Charlotte isn't there. The cradle is empty.
Anne woke gasping, sheets tangled around her legs. Beside her, Scott stirred but didn't wake. She slipped out of bed and pressed her forehead against the cool window glass.
Three times this week. The nightmare was coming more frequently, as if her subconscious sensed something her waking mind didn't.
Outside, the Scottish countryside lay dark and still. No green fire. No dark sorcerers. Just sheep and fields and the life she'd built.
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But the prickling at the back of her neck wouldn't stop. The sense of being watched. She'd felt it for weeks now.
What if Garka had found her?
Anne's breath fogged the window. If he found her, he'd torture her for information about Charlotte. And Anne would break—everyone broke eventually.
But she didn't know where Charlotte was. That had been the whole point. Jezzilie had placed Charlotte with a family and never told Anne the details. She couldn't reveal what she didn't know.
Still, the fear gnawed at her.
Charlotte would be ten now. Old enough to start showing signs of magic. Old enough to be in danger.
Was she safe? Happy? Did her adoptive parents love her?
Anne would never know.
"Anne?" Scott's sleepy voice came from the bed. "You all right?"
"Fine. Just couldn't sleep."
"Come back to bed. You're worrying again."
"I'm always worrying."
"I know." His voice was gentle. "But you're safe here."
Anne climbed back into bed, letting Scott pull her close. She wanted to believe him. But she'd learned the hard way that safety was an illusion.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the nightmare was waiting.
