Michelle Kane

To be exact, you said, an owl is a scholar of darkness, a patient archivist of secrets.

I fear this owl is no scholar.

If anything, it is a sentry.

But is it watching me?

Or is it watching over something else, as it watches over me?

Ophelia, you know I am not a fanciful creature.

Doubt has always been my shield against hysteria.

But there are footprints now, everywhere in the frost below the house.

They are neither the prints of bird nor beast.

Neither are they the footprints of man nor maiden.

Elongated and claw-tipped, they sink deep into the snow, down even into the soil beneath.

These prints have no beginning, and they have no ending.

They appear as if something came down from the sky and rose again once finished with its torment.

I doubt not that whatever this creature is stalking my land is also the source of my ill.

Just three nights ago, I woke to the sensation of breath upon my face.

At first, I thought it was you, Ophelia, sneaking into my chambers, as you have since they first set us apart.

When I remembered you were abroad, I thought maybe I had left a chamber window open.

I had never opened a chamber that night because it was too cold out for that.

Also because the owl perched on the iron, watching me.

My breath would not catch.