“Can you hear me?” the voice asked. It wasn't Clara—this wasn't a dream. Maeve blinked—oh, it couldn't be. . . .

“Mara?” she asked.

“It's me, Granny!” she said, sounding so happy and excited. Maeve blinked her eyes, trying to focus and register. She coughed, and the chemical taste—that sweet syrupy air she had drunk down like a potion—came back, filled her senses, made her dizzy all over again. She couldn't quite do it, not now, not yet . . . soon, she thought. Don't leave, don't go away, just give me five more minutes. . . .

“Wake up, Granny.” Mara's low voice. “Please, wake up. I want to see you, want to tell you about Rose. She's nine, Granny. She's so beautiful.”

“Rose,” Maeve murmured, back in the garden, the scent of flowers so heavy, pulling her back to sleep, away from the beautiful voice, Mara's voice. She struggled to open her eyes, look at the face of the person sitting there; oh, if only she could lift her eyelids, they were so heavy, and the smell was overpowering. . . . What had Mara told her he'd said once, so long ago: White roses bruise so easily. . . .

“Granny!” Mara said, her voice rising. “Stay with me, wake up! I need you, Granny!”

White roses bruise so easily. . . .

The white dream dissolved into darkness, and Maeve knew—she had to warn Mara. She had to wake up, do whatever it took, warn her darling granddaughter that the danger was back, and that she had to do whatever she could to protect herself and her child.

But sleep was too strong to fight, and it bound her up and took Maeve deeper, back to where no one could reach her for now.

Lily's first instinct was despair, but Dr. Mead, the neurologist, tried to assure her that it was common for coma patients to go in and out of consciousness for a while before coming fully awake. Holding on to her words was very hard—her hopes had been so far up when she'd seen her grandmother's soft blue eyes—for the first time in nine whole years—and heard that familiar voice she thought she'd never hear again whisper her name.

Shaken, she decided to go down to the cafeteria for a cup of tea. She waited in line, aware of people whispering as she passed. Choosing the tea, filling a cup with boiling water, she tried to keep her hands from trembling and spilling the water. She found an empty table at the far end of the room, with windows overlooking the parking lot.

“Hello, Lily.”

Her name was new, but the voice was old. She felt a trickle of fear run like an ice cube down her back. Her breath stopped cold—just like Rose's when she was a baby, unable to get air into her lungs. One word—her new name—and she felt the old familiar terror.

“Edward,” she said.