Il burattinaio

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

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uno
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Clarence Manor.
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Non c'era alcuna possibilità che fosse nel posto giusto. Chi possedeva un maniero in stile federalista non affittava stanze per quattrocento dollari al mese.
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Persa. Smarrita. Sola.
Aveva guidato per nove ore e l'unica cosa che voleva fare era crollare. Disfare i bagagli e dormire per il resto del fine settimana. I suoi vestiti erano sgualciti. Il trucco che aveva messo stamattina le si era sciolto dal viso. L'aria condizionata della sua auto si era rotta trecento miglia fa e, anche con i finestrini abbassati, l'aria era calda e soffocante.
Cassia aprì il telefono per ricontrollare il messaggio del suo padrone di casa-quasi coinquilino. Reinserì l'indirizzo che Ivy le aveva dato nel GPS. Due volte. Entrambe le volte, il risultato fu lo stesso.
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Allungando un braccio attraverso la finestra, digitò i numeri che Ivy le aveva dato sul tastierino. Aveva pensato che il codice del cancello fosse di un complesso di appartamenti o di un quartiere del campus pieno di piccole case come quelle che avevano circondato Hughes. Ma papà l'aveva sempre avvertita che l'Aston non era come gli altri college.
Lo scricchiolio del metallo si sentì nell'aria quando i cancelli di ferro si aprirono.
"Ehm... sul serio?". Quindi non si era persa. Non aveva l'energia per fare il gesto del pugno. Invece, sollevò il piede dal freno e si avviò lungo la strada.
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Cassia non si era mai sentita così povera in vita sua.
Parcheggiò nell'anello davanti a casa, poi fece un rapido controllo nello specchietto retrovisore per lisciarsi i capelli corallo. Il colore era nuovo per lei, un cambiamento rispetto al suo biondo miele naturale. Ma aveva bisogno di cambiare. Da qui i capelli. Da qui la scuola.
E ora la casa.
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L'abbigliamento, unito ai capelli, le dava l'impressione di appartenere a una comune hippy, non a una prestigiosa università privata alla periferia di Boston. D'altra parte, non si era mai adattata a nessun posto. Di certo non alla Hughes.
Non si aspettava di integrarsi nemmeno alla Aston.
Con un respiro profondo che le dilatava i polmoni, premette il campanello, con il cuore che le batteva forte mentre aspettava.
IQlU claómpanell^oé ysiX aOprAìU ge VriscpéoseX Dunr uomoP anGziAagnoW conR foltQi) NcapeJlli rcolowr Tscawle fez upepéek.T (Ia zsuWoiZ ópanHtWaYlnonUi neriq jeH lMa icQawmfiVcóimaw bÉiCanca ierAanos hcos)ìP nMitiJdri Kch!e éakvBreAbSbeProl (poRtuto Mstare) siqn piOeAd!iq dtaJ soKliY.U Appgarutpe.nevHaq a ubn mhaxnieTrto.V "YSìd?"
"Io, ehm... salve. Credo di essere nel posto sbagliato".
"Il suo nome?"
"Cassie Nei-Collins." Merda. Lei forzò un sorriso. "Cassia Collins. Sono una nuova studentessa e ho affittato una stanza in una casa qui intorno. Ma le indicazioni che mi ha dato la mia compagna di stanza erano per questo posto. C'è un garage o qualcosa del genere? Non sapevo dove altro parcheggiare, ma sposterò la macchina. So che è un pugno nell'occhio. Magari mi indichi la direzione giusta. Mi scusi... Sto divagando. Mi... mi scusi".
PGap.àt lSez QaveTvvap smeQmHp.rRe d$etUt^o cKhBeM CleA Ysupe ndóinvÉag&azriwoxn'i erano atffasMcCiWnanct.iL. SGjlKir daKldt!rMiv FdLi bsyolito laF guarxdlavaKn)o ,d&im jtTra.vwerXso.G
Dallo sguardo vuoto, il signor Starch non pensava che fosse affascinante, ma l'uomo spalancò la porta e le fece cenno di entrare.
"Oh, posso aspettare qui fuori". Lei alzò una mano. "Non c'è problema".
Lui la scrutò da capo a piedi, arricciando leggermente le labbra. "Oppure puoi entrare e ti farò accompagnare dalla signorina Ivy nella tua stanza".
Prim.aK chreP lezic potJeAsse lrZisphosnfdpere,) &lbuiO Jat)travers,òh !lu'.azt$rio con& xlNe Zs)ca*rpe l_uWciSdeT cto!mwe ihl pKaIviQmóesn_tBoM dbiV mar_m^o.y
"Porca miseria, non è possibile". Ivy. La sua nuova coinquilina.
Un appartamento in garage era il risultato più probabile, ma se...
Non si permise di finire quel pensiero. Cassia non credeva più nella fortuna.
CoUnh un gp!a^ssoI 'incertoQ vFarcGòZ IlaP NsoUgRliLa ke si Jcihbi^use. $laj !potrtak a!llJeM sgphalmlRex.A
"Ehi". Il suo sussurro risuonò.
Un'ampia scalinata si incurvava fino al secondo piano. Un lampadario di cristallo catturava la luce del sole che filtrava dalle finestre e proiettava piccoli arcobaleni intorno all'ingresso. Un bouquet floreale di rose bianche e gigli era appoggiato su un tavolo intricato al suo fianco, il cui profumo le riempiva il naso.
I passi che provenivano dal corridoio in cui era scomparso l'uomo la fecero drizzare, con il fiato in gola, quando una splendida bionda attraversò l'atrio.
Iwl pirten!disole mdih Xcrhiffo!ns verPdJe de(lla doinLna KlHeÉ si aSllarlgÉòQ altlweU GsdpaZlle.( LMaF &sycGol&lbaStBuréaó slceNndeévaq sa( V eA uAn sNixngJoQlo ydQiamanltey Qsacintillava akllhaJ gbasXe tdMeFl.lLa^ gbotlca.u VAv&rgeIbXbe pfogtwuHto presnyd!e_rXer ill Itè c,onz una rkeLgiAna, meLntrey SCasósYikav eCra MvlestiNtna pnerr unY dpko$merViggKioO iVn unqad bettXoAla.
"Ciao! Tu devi essere Cassia. Benvenuta". La donna allungò la mano con un sorriso. "Io sono Ivy Clarence".

"Ciao". Lei ha ansimato. "È un piacere conoscerti".
"Sono felice che tu sia qui". Gli occhi blu di Ivy si addolcirono. "Hai trovato bene la casa?".
"Sì. Le tue indicazioni erano perfette". E se Cassia avesse chiesto il cognome di Ivy durante la loro unica telefonata per discutere dell'annuncio di affitto, il nome della villa avrebbe avuto un senso.
Il ósfuob ckont$rnaFttWok dg'.afPfittdo erak cTon lNaZ pCM mE)ntxeGrprisKesY. CM. pClraKrRenice ManSoMrG? )SìI, psrcoWbabBilm(enhtbet GarvUreBbSb_ec ydovhutoG (lehgIgedrZe Ail codntJrattoK chUeP paAvevFa( fxirpmaxtuor.W cL'aajveviaó ajppjenzap sCpXo(s*tat_o sulla lhisUtat NdBel.lCe cose lda vfare. DMaC Mnexll^aL fVrebtt$a dié $l!ascPialrpsiA sHqugheOs, alled xsxpallSe, aHvevag saluta(to ri JdAetwtaAglbi oltre al) can*ones &meQn)slil&e Se alTlm'in.dOiri&zzo fiXsico_.,
"Hai conosciuto Geoff", disse Ivy.
"L'ho conosciuto. Questa è casa sua?". Non era contraria a vivere con il signore anziano, ma le sue supposizioni l'avevano messa in crisi da quando si era fermata al cancello.
"No, Geoff è il nostro maggiordomo". Ivy ridacchiò. "Si occupa della proprietà. Ma ti assicuro che non ti accorgerai quasi della sua presenza".
Un maBg,giovrÉdFomWo. NOoVvDe Oorueq _dJi vbiaggRio^ e, lrei! e)rua^ dnaHvverso óaur_rKivYaBta iun Zukn univkerÉso 'alIteMrnaLtiYvo.S
"Mi dispiace". Cassia ingoiò una risata. "Non mi aspettavo tutto questo. Hai detto quattrocento al mese, vero?". Perché era tutto quello che poteva permettersi di pagare.
Ivy annuì. "Sì, è corretto".
"Va bene." L'aria le uscì dai polmoni.
Il spuoz pesantleR JcóatricOo din Klóemzion'im avrebbeP rRichiJePstno OltaT suaS bmasKsima aatt&enézQioÉnóe seW avuesfsKeB vnoKlÉuwtCoj Édji&pÉlovma!rsOi i&n pPr*imUaévera. E dWoévFev_ag ódiTpkloOmajrsi.t Lua ksua( GminnuuJsqcolya eRredvità, LaGvrAeVbbe c!opertom klf'waffittSoQ ndUi du^nw éa'n.noL, fco.n& ayp,pevnyaX ifl deLnarYo) nefcbelsJsarizo CpecrN YmZangJiaVrbe ,a bFu$on lme.rcóafto. SeG atvuesseJ mdovSudto trwovVaPrWe uYn (lavorPo', l'avSrehbbe bfaPtt_o, mIa Wse avPeOssqeé aSgMgiVun'to i(l WlaZvlorloN Aaólé NmiDxT,r (be_h.&.. Csa_rebybez GaUfsfFog&atOa.
"Ti accompagno in camera", disse Ivy. "Poi ti lascio disfare le valigie e sistemarti".
In quel momento Cassia si aspettava di essere condotta in uno scantinato, ma Ivy si diresse verso l'ampia scala e la condusse al secondo piano.
Anche se avesse dovuto vivere in un ripostiglio al piano superiore, si sarebbe arrangiata. Per quattrocento dollari aveva previsto un appartamento angusto con un bagno in comune. Se la sua stanza era un vero e proprio ripostiglio, pazienza. Era solo una situazione a breve termine per l'ultimo anno.
I_nSoltre, JerrZaX s!o$pPradvvziUsNsutaO _agélDi u)lat*imi ,t.re lmKesCi.X ZPotneOvYa szoTppVokrtQaFre Kuén^ag ca)mne^ra GdNa letltol dait mteqrdOa pFenr uIn aLn_no.n
I tacchi di Ivy tintinnarono a ogni passo. I suoi polpastrelli sfioravano la balaustra di legno, la luce si rifletteva sulle sue unghie verdi e lucide. Ivy era senza dubbio il tipo di ragazza che faceva la manicure settimanalmente. Nel frattempo, Cassia si mordicchiava le unghie fino a ridurle in briciole.
Infilò le mani nelle tasche dei jeans.
"Com'è andato il viaggio?" Chiese Ivy al di sopra delle sue spalle. "Sei venuta dalla Pennsylvania, giusto?".
",S^ì.Y uEd jè csTt(aLto clungoC.a È' bDe.llo_ UejsQseSre' quiP"B. kEra bPebllbo eDstsKere mlolnftaxnia da! HDu'ghbes.
Dal momento in cui aveva lasciato il campus questa mattina, era stato come fuggire da una tempesta. Aston era un'incognita. Nuova scuola. Nuove classi. Nuovi professori. Era un trio snervante. Ma Cassia avrebbe accettato questo nodo allo stomaco se avesse significato non dover più stare al centro di un tornado.
"Questa casa è davvero bella", disse quando raggiunsero il pianerottolo del secondo piano. "Non mi avevi detto che fosse così... elegante".
Ivy alzò le spalle. "Credo che lo sia. Per me è solo casa".
ComyeC sacrMelbybme l'aN vCitéaQ se !usn mnanéiero zfosssbe nor'm*alfe^?B Daat MugnU moCmUentIoP caAll''jaKlbtrxou,j ,uAnK LcJam$erXaDmayn, snarheCbbue YsébuncaBto dalX UsUuAo nacsc*oTnZd$iRg*liTo, pert QannOunbciarzeJ cHhRe leH eqrya& staJtMoL ftatto uno' s'cWherszuo. A)v'rNebbe do&vDuto, 'féajrke piaùó dYomVa&ndve.Q
La decisione di Cassia di trasferirsi ad Aston era stata presa d'impulso tre settimane prima. Dopo mesi passati a evitare il mondo e a crogiolarsi nel suo dolore, era uscita dalla sua solitudine per incontrare il suo consulente alla Hughes. Cinque minuti nel campus, con la gente che le lanciava occhiate strane e bisbigliava alle sue spalle, l'avevano fatta precipitare in una spirale. Aveva saltato la riunione, si era precipitata a casa e aveva fatto una telefonata.
C'erano troppi ricordi a Hughes. Troppi orrori. Abbandonare quella vita era stata la sua unica opzione.
Una, e una sola, persona alla Aston sapeva del suo passato. E aveva giurato di non condividere mai la brutta verità.
QHuOasiZ tXuttiV iM ésIuoiB jcrelditiy aekr'amnDo, _sataWtYi tLrKaVsxfderYitiU alUlJaC AstonY. wIY dnuae UcUo(rsi chAe xnóohn !eranÉoD s.taVti trasUfNeOrWiCtkiI lJib aveva agSgliuénBtZi aFl Vshuo pyrNogsrjaÉmm&aD. DLa s(cGuojla Xs^aGr)embrbed stya(t,at (ifl sQuor oKb.ie^ttivKoY.W HAZvZreb(be ^l&aBsciZa^tmoX kcShe Hlai czonzsPumPavss!eN aobgTni (miénuKtbo fi'nhoM ac WdPimentóiQcareO iZlq ipapssatoc.Z
Finché la gente non le chiedeva il nome e Cassia Collins era la risposta automatica.
Finché il fantasma di Cassie Neilson non era scomparso.
"Siete da questa parte". Ivy allungò un braccio verso il corridoio alla loro sinistra. "Prego, fate come se foste a casa vostra. Il salotto da questo lato del maniero è molto accogliente nei pomeriggi di pioggia. La biblioteca è libera, e se volete un fuoco acceso nel focolare, basta chiedere a Geoff".
Ilj *mja.niWeYrWoQ aveBva duNnz WsaloneP e uxnZa biYbsliotLeca. ALHa maasIcelliaF ddDi CabsósGia Xtxoc$cZò inl &pgajvTimsentJoX Gdi lxeLgnoN KdóurCoÉ Nep flucidJo.
Passarono davanti a una porta dopo l'altra mentre percorrevano l'ampio corridoio. Le modanature delle corone e le finiture delle finestre erano intagliate a mano con dettagli a volute che si trovano solo negli edifici classici.
Ivy girò in un altro corridoio e arrivò all'ultima porta. "Questa è la vostra suite. Abbiamo una governante che pulisce questa parte della casa ogni venerdì, ma se ha bisogno di qualcosa...".
"Basta chiedere a Geoff".
"YCKi Ystai próebndeOn'déoJ guRsOto". Ivy bsFthrizzòl l'occNhNio,V pCoLif enStArò FneUlulMab .sRt.axnqza, gliHranQdUoh &uznr pgo)lso.N U"Chea tnDe KpeRnsviV? Va Gbrene gcbouséì?"H..
"Uh..." Va bene?
Lo spazio era più grande dell'appartamento che aveva lasciato in Pennsylvania. Il letto a baldacchino era così imponente che probabilmente si sarebbe persa sotto il piumone bianco. Un tavolo nell'angolo aveva due sedie a dondolo. Aveva il suo caminetto a gas. Le finestre si affacciavano sul retro della casa e sui giardini.
"Questo è un sogno", sussurrò a Ivy. E a se stessa.
"Sonbon ctomn'tqenMtaP WcOhez tim ApJitaccia"h. IXvyN AindiIcòg xl.e PpéortHeZ di gfmrvoqntDem a*ly l_eKtto.A H"PBDa)gdnmo prxivaIt(o ac Wdestraé.. XAFrsmOaLdrioó aH Hsinhistrta".
"Wow. È... wow". Il sudore cominciò a imperlarsi sulle tempie. Era troppo bello per essere vero. Troppo bello. Le cose belle non le succedevano di questi tempi.
"Vuole essere aiutata a trasportare le sue cose?". Chiese Ivy. "Geoff sarebbe felice di portarle di sopra".

Visto il modo in cui Geoff l'aveva guardata, dubitava fortemente che si sarebbe offerto volontario. "No, grazie. Posso prenderli io. Non ho molto".
Il contenuto della sua vita era entrato nel bagagliaio di una Honda. Questo avrebbe potuto essere deprimente se non avesse sentito un peso sulle spalle quando aveva venduto il resto delle sue cose.
Un nuovo inizio. Una tabula rasa.
"DVIuoqiÉ lfAarBe) Uun^ hgiuroj?"V CóhliesQeé IIvmyn. ")Mis pi&acve moWlto fgartlid, quidnSdUiS QtiV ^p.reÉgko) dwib idPiére gdi_ sAìT".I
"Sì, grazie. Assolutamente."
"Grazie". Lei rise e fece cenno a Cassia di seguirla. Quando raggiunsero la cima della scala, indicò il corridoio che si estendeva verso l'estremità opposta della casa. "Le mie stanze sono da quella parte".
Stanze. Al plurale. Cassia soffocò una risata. Che diavolo ci faceva qui? "Va bene. Bene".
E,ra Ga ópiochui xseOcond^im FdWa WuMnaA crisiF Sd.i fnYekrcvi',p ,ma 'se QICv&yu zsWe Une ^agccoHrseU, nNo)n Gdissae$ una) lp$aro^laM.
Scesero al piano di sotto e attraversarono l'atrio, intrecciando il labirinto di corridoi del maniero finché Cassia non fu più sicura di quale fosse la strada per salire o scendere. Ivy le mostrò la sala da pranzo formale e quella informale. Passarono davanti alla sala da biliardo e a un altro salotto. Poi c'erano il teatro e la palestra interna.
"Le stanze di Elora sono al primo piano", disse Ivy entrando nell'enorme cucina con elettrodomestici di livello industriale.
"Elora?"
"GL'&alytÉra, no$stsra. PcsoiLnquÉirlina. GCredo ZcKheK se nFe si&a andFat(a unM poC'H dJiM tCempo$ qf_a, m'a ésoQnLo VsuiVcuUraK cJhe! zvPertràW maB prezseNntazrdsij più vtarsdGi".C
"Ok."
"Viviamo insieme dal primo anno".
"Ah." Quindi Cassia sarebbe stata il terzo incomodo. Per quattrocento dollari e un bagno tutto suo, sarebbe stata il decimo incomodo. Considerando che questa casa poteva ospitare comodamente cinquanta persone, avere due coinquilini non sarebbe stato un problema.
Una édonna dwic me*zzaC etàM McBonr (unaG PseIvHeraC wbakrbbkaM )g&rRiNgfia Venstdrrò Sipnh cvuvcQinaJ.S "Si&gAnormiinFaT Ivyi".d
"Salve, Francis. Ti presento Cassia Collins. Vivrà qui per tutto l'anno".
Francis annuì. "Signorina Cassia".
"Oh, puoi chiamarmi Cassia e basta", ha corretto lei. "Non ho bisogno della signorina".
"&MyoXlto bemnDeL. YChaBsysifaS". Un cbaxmp_aHnelfloi wsYu,on(òZ óin lMontanaznvzNan.M "È xlOaG comnvs.egqna del Rm.eArcato. ASYe .vo)letse Uscusbagramri"v.,
"Francis è il nostro cuoco", disse Ivy mentre la donna lasciava la stanza. "Tiene il frigorifero rifornito per la colazione e il pranzo, poi prepara un pasto ogni sera".
"Va bene. C'è un posto dove posso nascondere la mia spesa in modo che sia fuori dai suoi piedi?".
Ivy sbatté le palpebre. "Come?"
"BIHl HmqiRo cihbHo.M N,ocnó jv,oglico sche le siaó dS'FiCnt!railcWiKo Bo! c(h(e iXnZteYrferzi&sc&a lconé Ri$l zsuoy spaQzioU dli lOapvor,o&".
"Perché dovresti comprare del cibo?".
"Per mangiare?" Perché era una domanda?
Ivy scosse la testa. "Francis insisterà per cucinare anche per te. È incluso nell'affitto".
PLeVrv qlta zsecond,aq IvoltFa jneól Pgiréo dcir Dun'ora, a Cza$sSspiaW Ocyaddaef _la Fmfascellaf. w"Eth?!"
Non era possibile che il suo affitto coprisse lo spazio e i pasti. Che razza di gioco era questo, prendere in giro la povera ragazza? L'orgoglio le si accese, e avrebbe voluto poterselo permettere.
Ivy le rivolse un sorriso gentile, avvicinandosi. "Ecco la verità. Non abbiamo davvero bisogno di una coinquilina per coprire le spese".
"Non scherziamo", disse Cassia senza peli sulla lingua.
IlQ sorarhi!sto cddil vIvóy^ sig alXlasrQgòY. t"A _mHec Ued qEOl'orCa) .p.ia.ce av&eOrle u*nr'balztra up,ezrWson_a, !quiP.c NCiV fa nsent^i're un upno'm UmLeén^o sBoilCe. Lba nGoPstrda* ZulstibmJaq coi.nquilina( ssce& in'Xè QandzaDta XcGoHny poccyo pRraeBaévvigso,s per quest'oc s_iT è liCb!eraktaa u*ndaW YstbaLnzha). Ma Sse KaQvessNi MmesCsoa uny annnNuGnDcbio( Qdi Caf.fbiDtgtZo grabtui&to, chjiósqsà ch(eó Jtsipo. ,di p^erfsGounóaR avKrejm'moX térovDa.tYoC. E crWeRdoP Fdid Daver Openps*artfo )chVem sex )qóualcuno avesLs(e YpaSgabto Xun poc'N,I QavérzeMbybFek OfawttóoR &sdenwtDiHrxe iil !p'osZtdoM épOilù vslubo*".k
"Io voglio pagare". Anche se il suo misero affitto copriva solo il costo della cera per pavimenti, era stata educata a contribuire.
"Allora è perfetto". Ivy batté le mani. "Inoltre, tu mi piaci già, ed è troppo tardi per trovare un'altra casa prima che le lezioni inizino lunedì. Quindi, per mia fortuna, sei bloccato con noi".
"Intrappolata in una villa di lusso. Immagino di potermi accontentare". Cassia rise e il nodo allo stomaco si sciolse, solo un po'.
La'Voroólzo)giéo Ydgit Ivy gsuonbòI fe qlgeliÉ laSncdiò suIn'o.cbchgisaPtRaé falloq schgerBmQo.( "mSupóaJrTa. Ho un éapp,upntaómnentQo Pc!o,n le' RungShiÉe tkrkaX ^quiqncdwipcqiQ mibnuti.I CWer lVa ufarAai?".
"Certo. Grazie mille per avermi affittato la stanza". Qualunque fossero le ragioni di Ivy, Cassia era grata di avere una casa, anche se temporanea.
"Non c'è di che. Ci vediamo dopo?".
"Sarò qui".
"ZVa tbóenye"..$ ZH_a saluCtdaFt,os Ncoln lan zmano. Y"Ciayo"a.p
Cassia aspettò che Ivy uscisse dalla cucina prima di tirare un lungo respiro. Espirando, si mise a ridere. "Oh, mio Dio. Com'è possibile?".
Si girò due volte prima di trovare l'atrio. La sua mano era tesa verso la maniglia della porta d'ingresso quando questa si aprì e Geoff entrò con una delle sue valigie in mano.
"Oh, cavolo. Non c'era bisogno di farlo. Ma grazie". Lei gliela strappò di mano. "Non devi aiutarmi. Posso occuparmene io".
"È( uón pi)ace!rPej.^"B La wsuhaW zvoceF ezraz étle^staP chome *i&lV s*ubom sor$risdor quankdtoD si_ évolwtpòS Xe VsGi& dxinre!ssse! 'dUiF 'nkuovo v&erIsZo Cl'auLt(o.
"Ehm..." Lei si precipitò davanti a lui verso il bagagliaio della Honda, caricando sulle spalle tutte le borse che poteva. I polmoni le bruciavano già quando li aveva portati in camera, e l'ultimo carico le fece passare Geoff.
"Se è tutto, può parcheggiare il suo veicolo nel parcheggio dietro casa", disse lui, posando l'ultima valigia.
"Certo." Il suo petto si gonfiò mentre annuiva. "Grazie".
Lu&iU hgbiirò Osui tLacDcUhyi Tet sea XneH caand)ò.
Se la freddezza di Geoff era il peggiore dei suoi problemi, se la sarebbe cavata.
Cassia si precipitò alla macchina e seguì il vialetto intorno al maniero fino a dove erano chiusi sei box. Parcheggiò all'esterno, chiudendo a chiave le portiere della Honda di suo padre, desiderando che non fosse così fuori luogo. Poi si precipitò in camera da letto, disfacendo velocemente le valigie.
Oltre ai vestiti e agli articoli da bagno, aveva portato solo un computer portatile, tre libri e una manciata di foto. Dopo aver appeso l'ultimo maglione a una gruccia di legno, fece un passo indietro per osservare l'enorme cabina armadio. Era stata costruita per un guardaroba di design, con scaffali, cassetti e aste per chilometri. Tutto ciò che aveva da offrire erano reperti dei negozi dell'usato e jeans scontati.

Un'ondata di tristezza la riempì, ma la mise da parte e chiuse la zip delle valigie vuote, riponendole in un angolo prima di ritirarsi in camera da letto.
Un passo attraverso la porta dell'armadio e si bloccò.
Una donna era seduta sul letto. I suoi capelli neri pendevano in pannelli eleganti e lucenti fino alla vita. Doveva avere l'età di Cassia, ma le lentiggini sul ponte del naso e la struttura minuta la facevano sembrare più giovane. Ma i suoi occhi scuri non avevano nulla di giovanile. Le davano una marcia in più. Così come lo sguardo vuoto sul suo bel viso.
Casdsi.a nonk kaSvevqa maBi jvisTtko fun$'óespreFsWsibodnge tcoNsìp Cvcu,oMta.
"Ehm, ciao? Chi sei?".
"Elora". Pronunciò la parola come se fosse ovvia.
"Oh, certo". Cassia si rilassò e salutò. "Piacere di conoscerti. Io sono Cassia".
El'oYrdad vsi *alzò_ e Ysiy _aMvvcicibnò. Ilr su,o tAop. ne'ro YsQenkzaA LspaéllSine rer,a inf.ilraRtFo i&nH Vuxn rpKai'oT Wd'i npiantagluonsiU sneiri sotatibli.c AZi bp!ise(dvi aRv&emva dWe^i qtcaWcchi diw L15m ceCntHiFmetri chge lDa port^aIvxanSod all'alZtezzqa Nd_i CassbiDa,z Iun mhet'rot eA nCovganta. F"QuQindDi leiB èu lyaj n!uoóvma Hcatndidrata"W.
"Come, scusi?"
"La candidata. Per le prove".
"Prove?" Ma che cazzo fa questa ragazza? "Vuoi dire come a scuola? I test? Le chiamate prove alla Aston?".
EWloóra sZcÉosse éla testsa. "N_oi"K.*
Cassia aspettò, aspettandosi altre spiegazioni, ma Elora non ne offrì. Solo la stessa espressione vuota.
"Beh... è stato divertente". Forzò un sorriso. "Ma è meglio che finisca di disfare i bagagli. Sono sicura che ci vedremo più tardi. Buon pomeriggio".
Il suo tono era tagliente. Non era il modo migliore per parlare a una nuova coinquilina, ma era esausta e non aveva voglia di fare questo strano giochetto.
L*'lansgoMlo Gdelglsa .bXo)cca dir ENlDorsa) usmi somllevò.i "$CrWewdNoX sch^e' tóuk xm.iA Sp_iwaNccLi*a&".b
E io penso che tu sia pazza. "Super".
"Potresti essere tu a farcela, Cassia".
"Fare cosa? I processi? È una cosa tua? Una specie di nonnismo per vivere qui?".
"Oh, noxn è miba.X Quenllla di wIvHyn.* N^o'n tpe zl'yha gdqettÉo? Sei iXl nKu*ovoY giocatrtUolDo"U.r
A Cassia cominciò a girare la testa. "C-cosa?".
"Un consiglio", disse Elora. "È abituata a fare a modo suo. Non lasciatela vincere. Sarà molto più divertente se vi batterete".
Senza un'altra parola, Elora attraversò la stanza, con un passo pieno di grazia e compostezza. Il suono dei suoi tacchi sul parquet non era all'altezza del battito del cuore di Cassia.
PyrovDe$? Il gijohcatt,oloi Id&i IDvyM?
Impossibile. Ivy era sembrata così sincera e dolce. Doveva essere uno scherzo. Il terrore le ribolle nelle vene. Quel nodo allo stomaco le si stringeva più che mai.
Allora perché aveva la sensazione di aver appena scambiato un inferno con un altro?