And so she woke one day, from her dreams of forts and nails—the droplets of rain splashing her face only thrice—for it was the remnants, she found—of last night’s fall—and most of her rooms remained dry, save a small puddle in the corner, fast evaporating as she unwillingly lit her fire.
A salamander fixed her with its small, dark stare and she bent down to catch it in her hands—surprisingly agile in her wakeful-sleepiness.
Trailing her foot in the water-puddle, she kicked a bit of it toward the hearth, speaking softly as she did so, “Salamander, salamander, turn fire to water, under this house, and over this house.”
He slipped through her fingers and skittered off.
And then, so did she.
**************************************
No.
Things were not the same.
Not at all.
She had found the soil loose and the sword half moved—turned only slightly—but in eight years of visitation, she knew this place as well as her own features.
“This is all wrong,” she said, and turned away, once again, as before, tears stinging the backs of her eyes and threatening to spill over.
They froze upon her cheeks—the tears—and a tight knot had worked its way to her stomach—spreading slowly—the way the blood had spread through her bedlinens the day Griffin had died.
“Someone has disturbed you—and you only---not Granny---and I thank you for watching over her---“
Something else was not right.
She could not place her finger on it—and her heart grew restless.
She did not feel quite at home here as she’d had for so long a time.
She felt—
“Violated.” She said, staring at the earth—repacked. “Someone’s violated this place. That is why it is not right.”
The knot remained.
Of course, she had always been more at home with the dead than the living.
To be sure, that was—truly—the culprit, here.
Yes.
Something was very wrong.