Too preoccupied with thoughts of Ruby to remember to don her robe, Ursula takes a seat at her mahogany escritoire. The best she can hope for under the circumstances is that Ruby will forgive her, releasing Ursula from the invisible prison her guilt has sentenced her to.
The thought makes her breath hitch, the accompanying stab of pain almost too much to bear. It seems impossible that after so many of them-night upon night, strung up after each other seemingly endlessly-only two remain until Ruby’s return, upon which Ursula will discover her fate.Īnd if she does know, there’s the chance that she’ll want nothing more to do with Ursula. Turning her back on the ominous view, Ursula heads for the calendar to mark off another mostly sleepless night. You don’t need to have Ivy’s particular powers to know as much. A storm is on its way, that much is clear. That infernal billboard that the city recently erected across from the manor property-with its aggressive gigantic lettering shouting, ‘Critchley Hackle Mega Complex Coming Soon!’-snaps in the wind, issuing small cracks of thunder. Whether they’re secrets or warnings, Ursula can’t tell, which only unsettles her further.
As the charcoal sky churns, not a bird to be seen, the trees in the wood whisper incessantly. It hangs its head low, bowing to a master who’s ordered it to bend the knee. The forest, encroaching at the garden’s boundary, looks disquieted. Either that, or it’s trembling uncontrollably with fear.
Strong winds whip through the tree, making it shimmy and shake, giving the impression that it’s espousing the old adage to dance like no one’s watching, a quality that rather has to be admired in a tree. Upon reaching the window, the cause of the ruckus is immediately obvious to Ursula one of the Angel Oak’s sturdy branches is thumping against her third-floor window.
She’s slept in the buff, as is her usual habit, and as she pads across the room, she’s more naked than the day she was born (being, as she is, one of those rare babies who came into the world fully encased in a caul). Trying to rid herself of the sticky cobwebs of sleep, Ursula throws back the covers, groaning as her joints loudly voice their displeasure. Half an hour before the alarm will be sounded for the first time in decades-drawing four frantic old women and a geriatric crow from all corners of the sprawling manor-Ursula is awoken by insistent knocking, like giant knuckles rapping against glass.
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