Always.â Claire smiled softly. âI love you, sweetheart.â
Skye hugged her tighter, nesting her head against her chest, though she knew she was too old to do so. Suddenly, miraculously, her head didnât hurt. âI love you, too, Mom. More than anything.â
7
C laire closed the bedroom door behind her, then leaned against it, her knees weak. She brought a trembling hand to her mouth, shaken, relieved. Afraid.
How long could she continue to keep the past a secret from Skye? How long before her daughter simply demanded to know everything? Today, Skyeâs wild imaginings had touched uncomfortably, even dangerously, close to the truth.
Claire shut her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose. There would come a time when she would no longer be able to put off her daughter with transparent evasions and vague promises. Today had proved that time was almost here.
She shook her head, shuddering. Monsters. What Skye didnât know, what she must never know, was that her mother had already faced and fought the monsters for her, that she had looked squarely into the eyes of evil and had seen the future. Skyeâs future. Her own.
And she had run. As fast and as far as she had been able.
But not far enough to stop her daughterâs curiosity, her questions. Not far enough to be finally free of fear.
Claire pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She was tormented by nightmares of huge, dark and distorted birds stalking her daughter. Some nights she awakened bathed in a sweat, heart thundering, certain she would find Pierce standing above her. Or worse, that she would awaken to find that he and Adam had swept Skye away while she slept.
For Adam was very much alive.
And he was searching for them. Still, after seven years, he hadnât given up.
He wouldnât, Claire knew. Not ever.
Claire dropped her hands and pushed away from the door, heading back to the trailerâs kitchenette and the soup she had left unattended on the range. The smell of scorched food hung in the air. The tomato soup had boiled over, the red liquid a vivid splatter across the white enamel top.
Claire stared at the pool of red, her mind spinning back to the morning she had run away with Skye, seeing Adamâs blood spilled across the wooden floor, the splatters of red on her daughterâs white pinafore.
And hearing her daughterâs howls of fear.
When she had first realized that Grace had no memory not only of the awful events in the nursery but of anything of her life as a Monarch, she had thanked God. Her daughter had gone to sleep and awakened without a memoryâthough Madeline hadnât understood that at first.
No, at first she had thought her daughter was in a kind of shock, but as several days passed without her mentioning her father, the events in the nursery or home, Madeline had begun to suspect the truth.
Too afraid of being found out to see a doctor about Skyeâs condition, Claire had done some research at the library of one of the towns they passed through.
There, she had learned that sometimes, when something was too awful, too painful to deal with, the brain simply chose to forget it, to reject the unpleasantness and go on as if nothing had happened. Repressed memory, the book called it. Though Claire knew she wasnât qualified to make a diagnosis, she believed thatâs what had happened to Skye. She had simply, on a subconscious level, chosen to forget.
Though grateful, initially, Claire had been worried by her daughterâs repressed memory. And frightened. But Skye had seemed so happy; she had acted soâ¦normal. As if she didnât have a care in the world.
That had changed in the last few years. It had changed with the emergence of that damned âM.â Skyeâs subconscious had let that image push through to her consciousness.
Remember, Skye, it seemed to say. Remember.
And with the âMâ had come Skyeâs questions. Her discontent
Skye hugged her tighter, nesting her head against her chest, though she knew she was too old to do so. Suddenly, miraculously, her head didnât hurt. âI love you, too, Mom. More than anything.â
7
C laire closed the bedroom door behind her, then leaned against it, her knees weak. She brought a trembling hand to her mouth, shaken, relieved. Afraid.
How long could she continue to keep the past a secret from Skye? How long before her daughter simply demanded to know everything? Today, Skyeâs wild imaginings had touched uncomfortably, even dangerously, close to the truth.
Claire shut her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose. There would come a time when she would no longer be able to put off her daughter with transparent evasions and vague promises. Today had proved that time was almost here.
She shook her head, shuddering. Monsters. What Skye didnât know, what she must never know, was that her mother had already faced and fought the monsters for her, that she had looked squarely into the eyes of evil and had seen the future. Skyeâs future. Her own.
And she had run. As fast and as far as she had been able.
But not far enough to stop her daughterâs curiosity, her questions. Not far enough to be finally free of fear.
Claire pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She was tormented by nightmares of huge, dark and distorted birds stalking her daughter. Some nights she awakened bathed in a sweat, heart thundering, certain she would find Pierce standing above her. Or worse, that she would awaken to find that he and Adam had swept Skye away while she slept.
For Adam was very much alive.
And he was searching for them. Still, after seven years, he hadnât given up.
He wouldnât, Claire knew. Not ever.
Claire dropped her hands and pushed away from the door, heading back to the trailerâs kitchenette and the soup she had left unattended on the range. The smell of scorched food hung in the air. The tomato soup had boiled over, the red liquid a vivid splatter across the white enamel top.
Claire stared at the pool of red, her mind spinning back to the morning she had run away with Skye, seeing Adamâs blood spilled across the wooden floor, the splatters of red on her daughterâs white pinafore.
And hearing her daughterâs howls of fear.
When she had first realized that Grace had no memory not only of the awful events in the nursery but of anything of her life as a Monarch, she had thanked God. Her daughter had gone to sleep and awakened without a memoryâthough Madeline hadnât understood that at first.
No, at first she had thought her daughter was in a kind of shock, but as several days passed without her mentioning her father, the events in the nursery or home, Madeline had begun to suspect the truth.
Too afraid of being found out to see a doctor about Skyeâs condition, Claire had done some research at the library of one of the towns they passed through.
There, she had learned that sometimes, when something was too awful, too painful to deal with, the brain simply chose to forget it, to reject the unpleasantness and go on as if nothing had happened. Repressed memory, the book called it. Though Claire knew she wasnât qualified to make a diagnosis, she believed thatâs what had happened to Skye. She had simply, on a subconscious level, chosen to forget.
Though grateful, initially, Claire had been worried by her daughterâs repressed memory. And frightened. But Skye had seemed so happy; she had acted soâ¦normal. As if she didnât have a care in the world.
That had changed in the last few years. It had changed with the emergence of that damned âM.â Skyeâs subconscious had let that image push through to her consciousness.
Remember, Skye, it seemed to say. Remember.
And with the âMâ had come Skyeâs questions. Her discontent
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