“Portrait of Sorrow ALWAYS. The fire had gone out again. He tried to hide inside the warm cocoon of blankets, but the cold seeped into his bones. When the whispers came, they scraped like steel down the length of him. Rumbold. Rumbold. His body shook. Before he’d gone to bed that night, he’d made the decision that if the whispers came again, he would not succumb to fear. With eyes closed so his imagination could not draw more monsters out of the shadows, he counted out the steps from the end of ...the bed to the wall and then along it, until his shin collided with the neat pile of wood Rollins had replenished. He fell to his knees in the ash and felt for the tinderbox. Beside it, Rollins had left two long, oil-soaked rags. Free me. The rags caught so quickly that Rumbold had to snatch his hands away. A circle of golden light surrounded him as the flames burned into the kindling. He tucked his skinny legs up and wrapped his thin arms around them, resting his chin in the ash on his knees.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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