Sadie Madison and the Boy in the Crimson Scarf

26 | The Horned God

Sadie had no memory of the previous night.

She'd been asleep.

Dreaming of the Narrowers.

Not her visit to the Hospital of Santa Viktoria.

Had she sleepwalked all the way here and back again? She looked at the faraway expressions of the statuesque doktors in the room. Did she look that way last night?

"And you're back...so soon," Dorothea went on. "That is surprising." She took a sip of wine. "Did you bring the Fire Wolves with you?"

"The...Fire Wolves?"

Had they come to guide her during her dreams?

"No," she replied. "Not tonight. I have Oliver instead."

Her pale friend worried at his scarf.

Sadie placed a hand on his.

"All this attention," she told the nurse, "feels a little...strange."

"Well," Dorothea said. "You're a little strange, aren't you?"

Sadie frowned.

"Not scarily so, my dear. Not like the terrifying creatures living beyond the forest wall, or in the depths of the River Myr, or Hershel Winter-Smith himself!"

Sadie's eyes widened. "You know about Hershel Winter-Smith?"

"Of course," Dorothea replied, taking another sip of wine. "Went stark-raving bonkers, didn't he? Slaughtered his entire family."

"Except his little sister."

"That's right. It's a good story. We're always using Hershel's name around here—what with it being a hospital and all—to keep some of the more cantankerous inpatients in line."

"It's not a story. Hershel Winter-Smith was a real person."

Dorothea stopped. Her mouth full of wine.

"Real?" she laughed, swallowing, gasping for air. "Come on, Sadie Madison. I wasn't born yesterday. Hershel Winter-Smith? Hurtmore House? Load of old nonsense. Just a scary bedtime story for naughty children and cranky inpatients."

"No," Sadie replied hastily. "It's true. I know it. I read it."

"You read it?" scoffed Dorothea, throwing her head back wildly. "Well, if it's written, so it shall come to pass." She waved her hand at two nurses sat across from them. "Genevieve. Edith. Sisters, listen to this. Sadie says Hershel Winter-Smith is real—"

"—was real," Sadie corrected.

"What?" crooned both the nurses, swivelling to face them.

Genevieve had flowing golden hair and shining cerulean eyes, youthful and vibrant. Despite their similar age, Edith looked quite different. She had short grey hair, brushed forward in a shallow fringe. Her eyes weary, glassy like marbles.

"She read it," Dorothea whispered, as though telling a campfire tale.

"Seems reasonable to me," Genevieve said. "So it is written, so it shall come to pass." Her hands moved theatrically as she spoke, her eyes shining.

"Something written is something real," Edith added.

Sadie rested her plate on the arm of her chair and crossed her legs. Oliver shuffled nervously, watching the faces of the three women. He noticed that Genevieve and Edith, like Dorothea, had the same dark veins running beneath their skin.

"We're just playing," Dorothea assured her as the three women laughed. She put a hand on Sadie's shoulder and smiled. "But you believe it, my dear. You believe whatever you want to—whatever you need to—whatever your heart desires."