Chapter 9

Early Saturday morning—the day of the play—found Gislane, Clef, Rolf and Deathrow on a hilltop just outside the town. The climb had not been easy. The grass was still damp with dawn, and a restless wind swept across the ridge, tugging at clothing and hair. Yet Gislane stood as though she belonged to it, her face lifted, her strength seemingly renewed by the very air itself.

Clef, by contrast, was still far from convinced. He watched her closely, concern etched across his face. It still struck him as madness to have come. Even a short climb like this, so soon after her collapse, seemed reckless. He could not quite bring himself to name what had happened to her—only that it had left her frighteningly still, as though life itself had stepped aside and might not return.

But Gislane brushed off his concern with quiet firmness. She was not made of glass, she insisted—and here, with the wind in her hair, she felt stronger with every passing moment. Clef was not reassured. What was the point of being here at all?

Gislane did not answer immediately. Instead, she turned slowly, inviting them to look around. The town lay below them, softened by distance and early light, while the hill itself seemed alive—breathing, almost—under the sweep of the wind.

“Don’t you feel it?” she asked.

Deathrow did not share her enthusiasm. Hugging himself against the cold, he muttered that what he felt was the wind cutting straight through him. Of all times to be dragged out of bed, this was hardly his idea of a good one.

Gislane only smiled faintly. This, she said, was the best part of the day—the moment when the world could still be heard speaking, before the noise of living drowned it out.