Elena’s back at the archive when we return after breakfast. She looks like she’s well-rested, alert and already in deep concentration, an ancient text open in front of her.

“Portals,” she says when she looks up and sees us. “Good morning to you both.”

We both wish her a good morning, and she continues her line of thought. “I woke up thinking about portals. My brain must have been sifting through past readings while I slept, because I have a theory. I’m just looking for the evidence now.” She scans our faces, then asks, “What’s happened?”

Thom and I look at each other quickly. “Our advisor, Dr. Pendle, and his former colleague know about Thom.”

Elena looks at Thom, questioningly, and he says, “Dr. Sidris saw my tattoo – years ago - and finally traced its meaning. They know I’m a Sentinel.”

“Apparently, there were some signs that Pendle picked up recently, when they were near water. He knows someone who might be able to help Thom. You know, with the adjustment.”

Elena nods. “And how does this make you feel?”

“Exposed,” Thom says, sounding vulnerable. “Worried. Embarrassed by all of the attention.”

“That’s all quite normal, I should think,” Elena says. Thom looks over at me, a look I interpret as a plea to divert the attention from him.

“I told Thom about Jenny.” Elena’s eyes widen, but she says nothing. “The thing is, I’m wondering if I was a bit hasty in deciding Jenny was a mass murderer. I’ve been thinking I should go back to her journal, with fresh eyes.”

Without a word, Elena stands up and walks out of the room. I hear her footsteps on the stairs, and the creak of floorboards in the room above us. A minute later she’s back, holding out the book that has caused me so much anguish. I hold out my hands, palms up, and she sets the book there, gently. It’s warm, like it’s been sitting in bright sunshine, but I know better; Jenny’s journal radiates heat whenever it’s close to me.

And then it’s my turn to walk out of the room soundlessly. I need to be alone with this text.

I remember my first night in Ballaig, lying on an air mattress in the room above Pearl’s café, staring up at the stars through the skylight in the roof. The moon was sliced in half, and it glowed with an energy that practically sizzled, which made no sense for a crescent moon. I rolled onto my side, trying to block out the light, and trying to block out the memory of my mother’s attack.

I’d told Thom that I waited until she was asleep to leave home that night, but the truth was so much worse. I waited until she was asleep, and then crept along to the bedroom where she and my father were passed out, both snoring loudly. I clutched my pillow as I stood there, daring myself to do it.

And then I did it; I tiptoed to her side of the bed and held the pillow over her face, pressing it down hard enough to stop any air from getting to her lungs. The sound of her snores was amplified by the pillow, until there was one long, rasping rattle, and her arms and legs began to jerk up and down. I kept pressing the pillow down, hoping that she would stop moving, until a heavy, horrible feeling pushed against the edges of my chest.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t believe what I’d almost done. I ran out of there, along the hallway to my room, and started throwing clothes into a bag. I remembered Jenny’s journal, and ran back to my parents’ room, yanked open the closet door, and rifled around until I found it.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

And then I was out of the house and in the cold night air, walking through the sleepy streets, unsure which direction to go in, or what I would do next.

The muscles in my arms and hands were reliving the feeling of pressing the pillow into my mother’s face that first night, under the bright crescent moon. I was sure I’d get no sleep, but I awoke from a bad dream about something or someone up on the roof, looking through the skylight at me. I could feel the presence of a cat on the bed, pressed up against the backs of my curled-up legs, just like Nan’s cat used to do when I slept at her house. Its warmth, the substance of its body as it huddled against me, was incredibly comforting. I experienced a moment of pure, cat-loving pleasure, before I realized that there was no cat in the makeshift living quarters above Pearl’s café. Slowly, I reached down, feeling for the cat, but found only air.

I told myself I’d imagined it. There was no cat, whatever I’d felt was something carrying over from a dream into my semi-conscious state.

When I did fall asleep again, I dreamed that I was walking through a forest, in the fog. Although I couldn’t see where I was going, I wasn’t lost – I was walking steadily, stealthily toward my destination. Tiny neon green sparks that might have been fireflies illuminated the path ahead, and bright pink star-shaped lights twinkled at the periphery of my vision. I heard something, or someone, coming behind me, but I wasn’t afraid. This was someone, or something, I knew. My bag dipped, with the weight of whatever had just been placed inside.

A gentle voice spoke directly into my ear. “I pass this to you now, love, for safe-keeping. It needs a new guardian, and I have chosen you. Use it well. It is full of secrets you will discover, and the truth, and dangers. You have come from a dark place, and you will return to one sooner than you wish. But you have everything you need for protection.”

With a puff of air like a candle being snuffed out, the voice disappeared, and I knew that the person was no longer on the path behind me. I knew with absolute certainty who it was: Jenny. She was passing her secrets to me.

That dream was the journal calling to me, I was sure. I switched on the light, and pulled the warm-to-the-touch journal out of my bag. The cover of the journal was a deep navy-black and, as I looked down at it, gilt letters edged in white appeared, spelling out Jenny Carlin. Tiny, beautifully-realized illustrations of different flowers in pastel colours, double-edged in gilt and white, dotted the cover around Jenny’s name.

I opened it, and the sharp, invigorating tang of vetiver filled the air, mingling with the heady, strong scent of night-flowering jasmine. I looked down at the first page to see an illustration of a round, ginger cat, his four paws placed elegantly on a rock, standing in the centre of a meadow of wildflowers. His pink mouth was curved into a smile, and his copper eyes were half-closed in a look of relaxed affection. Was this Jenny’s cat I was looking at?

And then, a line of cursive script appeared at the bottom of the page:

Mr. Samson Cat, lazily pawing butterflies while I look for angelica.

I wish I could say that what I saw next was a trick of the moonlight, but I know I was awake, and I know what I saw. Butterflies of different colours fluttered and danced across the page; fat bees lifted themselves up off flowers and landed on others. Mr. Samson’s eyes flicked from one butterfly to another as he raised a paw and swiped the air without much conviction, as the wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze. The illustration was alive with more than movement: I could hear the buzz of the bees, Mr. Samson’s soft, deep purr, and the rasp of the breeze as it rustled the tall flowers.

A playful, wise voice whispered, “You must finish what I started.”

“But how?”

“The book will show you the way.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Read the book, and you will understand.”

“Can’t you help me?”

“I am helping you. I will help you. That’s why the book is in your hands.”

Mr. Samson looked straight at me, and blinked, inclining his head with a message I didn’t understand. “I don’t understand,” I said sadly.

“Look for the meadow,” the whispered voice was so faint I could barely hear it. “You’ll find us in the meadow.”

The book grew dark and still in my hands. I knew I was awake, and yet I didn’t want to admit I was awake. I sat there, staring down at it, then stood up quickly and shoved the book into the bottom of my bag.

“It was a dream,” I said aloud, quietly, trying to convince myself.

As though to contradict me, to convince me that everything I’d just experienced had really happened, a voice whispered in my head Finish what I started.