Charlotte didn't know how long she had been asleep.
When her consciousness stirred again, she was awakened by the whining of the wind and the piercing cold.
Slowly opening her eyes, what came into view was not the coffin lid embedded with night light crystals.
Instead, it was a roof made of clumps of grass, stones, and wood.
Charlotte lay on a pile of hay, covered with a gray-black sheepskin blanket stained with filth. The harsh gale howled, causing the roof to creak as if it might collapse at any moment. The dim glow of fire flickered through the room, casting the world in hazy shadows. She could hear the crackling of burning wood and smell the scent of charred lumber and moldy vegetation.
Flakes of snow, ushered in through the gaps in the eaves and windows by the cold wind, glittered as they descended, spiraling down onto Charlotte's small face, ice-cold, gradually rousing her sluggish thoughts.
Staring at this unfamiliar thatched cottage, Charlotte felt bewildered.
