That wouldn’t be breaking the rules, would it, if it was only the thundering of her heart that did the waking? She stayed utterly quiet and still, even when they released her, although her heart beat so hard and fast that it seemed possible it would be loud enough to summon her mother.Ī selfish part of her wished it would, wished that her mother would come and turn on a light and banish the monsters. That was like a fairy tale, too, which made Wren wary of breaking the rules. “But if you wake anyone in this house, you will most assuredly be sorry for it.” “I am going to let you go,” said a harsh voice with an unfamiliar accent. Before she could get out the first kick, her legs were pinned. She woke only when she felt claws touch her ankle.īefore she could get out the first scream, fingers covered her mouth. They snuck in through her window, pushing up the jamb and slashing the screen so silently that she slept on, curled around her favorite stuffed fox. That’s why, when the monsters came, she knew it was because she had been wicked. By the time she was eight, she could lift bags of groceries that her adoptive mother struggled with.Īs a child, Wren read lots of fairy tales. And she could play in the snow for hours, constructing elaborate tunnels and mock-fighting with icicles, coming inside only when called.Īlthough she appeared bony and anemic, she was strong. Her lip color changed like a mood ring, staying bluish and purple even in summer, turning pink only when close to a fire. Her foster parents bundled her up in jackets and coats and mittens and gloves, but unlike her sister, she was never cold.

She was a wizened little thing, too thin, made of sticks.Īs she grew, her skin retained a slight bluish cast, resembling skimmed milk. By the time she was brought to the hospital, her limbs were blue with cold. A passerby discovered a toddler sitting on the chilly concrete of an alley, playing with the wrapper of a cat-food container.

Wren the stolen heir