I lift myself up on my elbows. In answer, the bird cocks its head to the side so I can admire its lifeless black eye, set like a black pearl in the side of its skull. It repeats its raw cry—a terrible, merciless cry.

Kraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

The sheep bleat in fear and move away. The raven hunkers down into itself and gathers its energy to spring. It has decided on a target, chosen a vimtim—a young lamb that has wandered too far from the flock—

In a flash I am on my feet, a stone in my hand. With all my might I hurl it at the raven. My aim is low, and the stone hits the post with a sharp thwack. The bird flaps its wings clumsily in surprise and rises on taut, wiry legs. It swivels its head to look at me full on.

I hurl another stone. This time I hit the bird squarely, right on its oily black chest.

KRAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The raven screams in fury and takes flight, circling around and swooping low over my head. I fall to the ground and curl in a ball, covering my face with the shawl.

Go ahead, wicked bird, I think, try to peck out my eyes if you can. Even blinded, I will grab you by the throat and never let go. I am that angry and reckless now, and I care nothing for what happens to me.

As if hearing my thoughts, the raven retreats, still complaining, until its furious cry fades into the sky.

I uncurl my body and look around. The sheep stare at me, their limpid, nearly human eyes wet with gratitude.

I shiver with cold and fatigue, and my knees weaken with the relief that comes when danger has passed.

It has passed for the lamb, perhaps. For now. But not for me.

Finally I let myself feel all the fear and sorrow in my heart, and my tears are set loose once more. I am easy prey, I think, a motherless lamb, alone in the world. No flock, no friends, no green field I can call home. And the skies are full of ravens.

I have no choice. I must go back to Hulne Abbey.

During my wild race from home, rage and hurt blotted out all sense of time passed or distance traveled—but now, on the shame-filled journey back, the movement of the clock resumes with vengeful slowness. It is a full three hours before I reach the cottage. For the final torturous hour I must pick my footing step by step in the pitch dark, for of course I have no lantern. Twice I stumble and catch myself on my hands, leaving my palms scraped bloody from the gravelly path.

Easy prey, my fear whispers to me with every step. Remember what you are.