The storm was raging harder now. The lightning was constant, illuminating the churning river in stroboscopic flashes.
But there was no sign of Caelan.
The silence from the woods was worse than the noise. The clash of steel had stopped. The silver trumpet had fallen silent.
"He should be here," Isadora whispered.
"Maybe he ran," Bram said from the corner, his voice small. "Maybe he flew away."
"He wouldn't," Isadora said. She pressed her hand against the cold wood of the wall. "He said he would be right behind us."
Come back to me, she had whispered.
Try and stop me, he had replied.
But time was stretching. Minutes turned into an hour. Then two.
The cold in the mill became gnawing. Isadora found some old tarps and wrapped them around Bram and Elias. She tried to wrap one around Elenora, but her mother refused, sitting upright on a crate, staring at the door with unblinking intensity.
Isadora couldn't sit. She paced.
