"It's only a dream," she repeated, yet the room still shimmered with ghost-heat. Her own voice sounded small, almost childlike, as though it were a stranger's attempt at comfort. The words bounced against crystal walls, came back thinner, offering little reassurance.
Outside the chamber a lone wind-chime tinkled—three delicate notes that faded too quickly. In their wake the silence pressed in, thick with the scent of crushed orchids from the garden below. She tasted sweetness on the air and realized it was the same subtle spice that had clung to him in the vision. Her stomach tightened.
The Saintess drew another breath, hoping the familiar chill of the crystal would leach the flush from her cheeks. Instead the stone thrummed beneath her palm, tingling in time with her pulse as though the grove itself were amused by her turmoil.
