Or sort of wrong.

Like before, he’d started with a word – the one Anna had described the way she’d felt last night: free. And then he’d allowed his imagination off the leash in a way he’d hadn’t done in years, too afraid it would head back to that same awful destination. Other words had come: brave, strong, good… And, like last time, when his rusty brain had run out of words, his pen had continued making marks on the creamy paper of his notebook. Brody was no great artist, but he had enough skill to sketch an idea and the end result be recognizable as something, even if it was just a wisp of an idea caught from a dream he couldn’t remember.

He’d drawn a woman. Well, an elf, really. Similar to the one Moji had in her shop, so he’d decided that maybe his subconscious wanted to make another one. He’d give it to Moji and she could sell it. It was the least he could do after all her kindness to him over the years.

When he’d finished sketching, he’d headed out to the workshop to get started. Lewis had followed him, slightly perplexed and wondering where breakfast was, and now here they both were, under the harsh glare of the fluorescent tubes until dawn broke properly, Lewis in his bed in the corner and Brody leaning over the workbench, trying to see if he could make this glimmer of inspiration come to life.

Brody hummed while he worked. He tried not to make many decisions or pay too much attention to what he was doing, just in case he jinxed this almost forgotten feeling of creative flow. He didn’t even glance at his notebook much. The image seemed stuck in his mind, so there was no real need.

But when he’d come close to finishing, when the major features – limbs and body, clothes and face – were just about there, only needing a little refinement, Brody realized he’d taken a wrong turning somewhere. The little figure, maybe only ten inches tall, was close to the sketch he’d drawn earlier that morning, but there were significant differences too.

She wasn’t an elf, for one thing. She wore a dress, but it was plain and simple, no fluted sleeves or Celtic knotwork. Her hair was long but remained above her shoulder blades rather than skimming the backs of her thighs. He guessed, if he were able to lift her hair, that he’d find that her ears weren’t pointed but small and rounded.

His creation was human. Or maybe only half human, because there was something otherworldly about her too, something different.

Who was she?

The answer came in a flash from his dream, an image that fired across the synapses in his brain and stung them into life, like an electric shock from a defibrillator. He suddenly knew exactly who she was. His whole body grew hot and his skin shrank until it was three sizes too small.