Fiona, finally alone in her in-laws' living room, finds a seat and
sits quietly, listening to the sounds of searching coming from
throughout the house. There's the thump-thump from the cellar
stairs, followed by the sounds of astonishment, as Edward and Oak
reach the basement. There's also the quick-fire clatter and banging
of her husband in the kitchen, moving from cupboard to drawer to
appliance in speedy succession. And of course, there's the more
cautious, contemplative thud of two pairs of feet ascending the
stairs as Raven and Mary reach the upper floor.
Beyond that, Fiona can hear a gentle hum, the everyday vibration of
the house itself, settling into its' new role as somewhere entirely
new: a kind of place the world has never seen before, a bridge
between what's real and what's not.
And behind all that, not actually heard at all, but still whispering
in the deepest part of her brain, the voice of the Angel. She'd
managed to tune him out for a while, but now, left in silence, his
voice is bright and clear.
“Don't just look for the obvious,” he says, smooth and oily,
“They could be anywhere. They could be anything!”
