Anything you recongize I do not own. They are property of Libba Bray, author extraordinaire. If there are any mistakes regarding grammar, and spelling and/or if there are any inaccuracies that involve circumstances within the book (e.g. 'Her hair is supposed to be green, and he was standing behind not in front of her, and ETC.') please feel free to inform me.

I let my fingers graze the space just under her eyes. A new emotion flits there like the momentary flicker of a candle: Surprise.

I note then how inappropriate a spectacle we must be; my hand on her face...our faraway gazes locked solidly as though caught, melting in a moment of urgency...need. Whether it is of eachother or of a greater force, I do not know, nor do I shift a muscle.

I would move away...I would board the coach, and I would take her back home...but I find I cannot just yet. Not when sadness fills the eyes I have come to know so well.

"You are the bravest girl I know," I avow, meaning each word truly and completely. It provokes a familiar sense of foreboding to rouse within me, and I am once again assualted by the most frightening nightmare I have had of her:

Dark hands like a pair of distorted black tarantulas gripping hard and fast over the white of her neck.

I will have to kill Gemma Doyle.

I quickly take an admonished step away from her, shuddering quietly in disbelief as I allow her a moment's peace to gather herself by the carriage.

When Gemma finally mounts the coach, completely absolved of her tears, I help her in with a wistful:

"Merry Christmas, Miss Doyle."

Words are all I have for her.

And when I take her life, in whatever fashion or method I choose, I know that they will not be enough.

She screams again, her nails clawing hard at my face, my chin, my hair.

I feel a collection veins pulsing strong beneath the severe hold of my fingers. They throb in a failing sense of desperation.

She closes her eyes. Then opens them again.

They resurface the air with the faintest tinge of fear, and something I cannot name.

Her legs kick hard below mine.

But I am a cage and she cannot hope to escape.

And that's when I see the light begin to leave the green of her eyes.

She goes limp.

And I imagine blood in my hands...

Though they are as clean as the moon that hangs, stoic, above me.

I awake with a start, nearly waking a snoring Ginger whose stable I suddenly find myself in, an absolute mess: hair dishevelled, and sweaty from nightmare.

I quickly brush away the bits of hay thathave managed to cling to my coat, and almost instantly after, I bury my face in my hands, the familiar sting of tears and duty breaking me.

Can I do what is expected of me in the end?

The question haunts me like a phantom, and it chases away all the certainty in my heart.

The Rakshanna. My life. Everything I've ever known…should I throw it all away?

All for the sake of a stupid girl?

I sigh, feeling exhaustion weigh me down, though I've slept for nearly six hours.

Gemma Doyle is not a stupid girl.

And as the first glimmers of sunlightbreak through the open gaps of the stablehouse, I curse myself and her for the sheer injustice of it.