I run from the burning building, and I can't stop crying. The tears have been flowing since Eugenia left with that monster and now they just won't stop.
Maybe she lived; maybe she's come to her senses; maybe we can fix this together.
"Sarah?" I say quietly.
Silence. All I hear is an owl.
But then I'm not really expecting an answer. How could she have gotten out of the East Wing? She's burning in the fire-right now.
But even though I'm not really expecting an answer, I still burst into fresh tears when all I hear is silence-because silence is all I'll ever hear when I say her name.
I collapse on the ground and cry-for that little girl, the one I killed; for Eugenia; for Sarah; and for me, all alone in these woods, all alone like I was before she came into my life.
I can't be Mary Dowd anymore-she died in that fire, along with her only love and her only friend.
I must be like a phoenix and be born again from the ashes.
I turn to the front page of my diary and write a letter.
"What frightens you? What makes the hair on your arms rise, your palms sweat, the breath catch in your chest like a wild thing caged? Is it the dark? A fleeting memory of a bedtime story? Or is it something deeper, something much more frightening, a monster deep inside? Is your heart beating faster? Do the clouds seem to be gathering on the horizon? Does the skin on your neck feel stretched tight, waiting for a kiss you both fear and need? Will you be scared? Will you know the truth?
Mary Dowd, April 7, 1871
Then I go off to the caves and hide my diary there. If Sarah survives, then she will come here. If not, it will either be found-or it will be lost.
I look out at the sky, turning from night to dawn.
It's a new day and I'm a new person for it.