The icy breeze trickled out of the woods, flowed down towards the River Usk and
rnthen on towards the small town of Abergavenny. The solitary, old farm-house in its

desolate winter garden shivered and huddled deeper into itself. An owl, hungry, cold
rnand thoroughly disgruntled, hooted mournfully. It was the witching hour.

Inside, in her attic bedroom, Cary snuggled deeper under the covers. She was
rndreaming. It was summer and she and Cash were cooling off in the shallows at the
rnbottom of the garden. The sun was hot, the sky blue, the puffy clouds purest white and it

was altogether delightful. A waft of warm air tickled her nose. She brushed at it
rnabsently, refusing to open her eyes.

"Go away, Cash," she murmured. "I just want to be quiet for a moment."
rnThe waft came again, and this time Cary sneezed. Still she refused to open her eyes.
rn"Stop it," she said crossly, and again: "Do stop it."