In last week’s Six Sunday portion of my clockpunk Pied Piper project, the night which he spent writing out the ravings of Anna’s fever-dreams came to a close, and Peregrine finally seemed to have a moment’s peace.
But in this world, nothing lasts.
When he woke up, she was gone.
He was aware, first, of the angle of his head. Before he even opened his eyes, Peregrine felt the indentation in the blankets, that hollowed-out space that she had once filled, and that his own head was now leaning inexoriably towards in her stead.
He heard nothing. No soft slow footsteps, no pained cries, not even the scurrying, scrambling noises he imagined she might make if she attempted to move in such a state.
There was nothing but the hollow place, and the bile rising hot in his own throat in answer.