08 February 2010
She was there somewhere, there hidden in the garden, back among the flowers—he was sure of it: he had just seen her, hadn’t he? But there was something different about her. Even the brief glimpse he’d had of her had made that clear: something, he couldn’t help but think, wrong with her, something missing. And she had seemed—unless he was mistaken—afraid. What is she afraid of? he wondered, rubbing his chin against the butt of his axe. Surely not me?