"Gabby?"

I roused slowly, curling on myself to stay warm, nuzzling against Falrung's chest in a vain search for warmth. The silence was strange to me - no snores, no sounds of mumma cleaning up or Anya rousing. Only mum's whisper, her hand gentle on my back. "Gabriel, cherie, come."

I grunted fitfully, twisting to try and share Falrung's warmth, but unable to find it. Blinking sleep sand from my eyes I moved my hands, pressing against his chest, listening to the comforting thump-thump of the drum in his chest I couldn't hear. Mum's hands wound around my waist, pulling me away.

"Farum." I whined, twisting in mum's arms, confused and filled with belly-deep dread at the sudden, shocking silence and coldness of the world. "Wake. Wakey."

"No, dear." Mum soothed, turning me away, nestling my head in the crook of her neck and petting my hair as I fretted. "No more. Shhh."

I caught Anya out of the corner of my eye, staring at papa, and grimaced in jealousy. I squirmed out of mum's arms and raced to her, my gaze moving from papa sleeping, to her, to papa again. I frowned, still childishly determined. "Papa. Wakey, now, g'morning."

Anya stared, eyes glassy at papa, her hand over his. I moved my hand, too, feeling a shiver at how cold his skin was. "He won't, Gabby. He's dead."

"Dead?" I echoed before mum spoke, sharply reproaching her and gathering me up, taking Anya's hand. Her face was twisted, and our home seemed empty - pots gathered, the rug gone, even scraps of parchment moved away. I whimpered, clinging to mumma and staring after us as we moved outside.

"No!" I screamed, wrestling her with my tiny might. "You forgot! Papa!" Papa didn't kiss her. Is she mad? I poured the wine all wrong, all wrong, it's all wrong. Mum's face twisted, eyes darkened and slitted, lips pressed into a harsh line as she hurried us outside, were strange men in dark clothes waited.

"Dead this morning, ma'am?"

"Y-yes. I don't know how." Mumma whispered, her eyes going wide. "Jacques, my husband, he works with the ill."

"Then Stendarr will give him a warm blessing." One of the men looked at us, eyes sweeping over Anya and mum before settling on me, his lips pursed. "Do you have... somewhere to stay? To take the children? I'm sure the chapel - "

"Family." Mum cut off, pulling me close, her arm almost unbearably tight. "I have family who will help us. But thank you."

Murmurs as they passed by - consolations, regrets, the only word I truly understood was sorry. I whimpered. Sorry. Sorry. Bad wine. Bad Gabby. The door stayed open just slightly in the wind, and I caught a cruel, final glimpse of papa's face and shrieked for him, fear coiling in my belly.

"Papa!"

A final whisper from one of the men, carried on the wind - poor tot.

Not a tot. Bear. Bear-girl. I whimpered, cried, pounded my fists against mumma's shoulders as we walked to the stables, as another man in a dark green cloak swept my mum in a hug, a papa-hug, and helped us on a great black horse.

My last memory of my father, my true childhood home, is of this - the trees of Mournoth high and proud against a dim sky, the wind-whistle and smell of horse hair and oil, the pounding of hooves and the strange shrinking of all I'd ever known into a pinpoint of snow white and sleep black...

"So this is your littlest one."

I jerked awake at the feel of a hand on my cheek, smooth and clean and strange by the memory of my father's calloused fingers. The hand brushed down the curve of my jaw, a face and small smile swirling into view.

"She looks like you, cherie Abelle." He leaned in close, eyes narrowed, frowning in thought. "I will take good care of you, petite mon."

Papa is supposed to take care of us. I grimaced, squirming away and shuddering at the feel of mum's nails running through my hair. Not you. It's wrong, all wrong. Papa forgot. I wronged. Fear and hysteria bubled in my, clawing up my throat until I wailed. Mumma cooed, Anya pinching my leg and telling me to shut up. The strange man, with his clean beard and watery eyes, backed away.

"You all must be starved. Have a meal readied for them, Trudeau." Another man, the horse-man in green nodded as a wiry boy led the steed away. I began to screech louder, pounding my fists because it was wrong, we had to take the horsie and go back and get rid of what Anya had called dead.

"Hush, Gabby. Look." I quieted to a whimper at the sound of mumma's voice, her hands wrapped around me as cobblestone clapped under her feet. "Look how pretty your new home is."

I followed her finger and gaped, my eyes going wide. It was as though from a storybook, spires silhouetted against grey slate, green roofs snow-dusted and white-washed beams stretching wide. But home is home, home is... I whimpered again, nuzzling mumma - the only steady, unchanged thing, it seemed - and whispered.

"I poured the wine. I did it wrong."

"No, sweet, no." Mum's face twisted, eyes dark and fogged in grief. "You did nothing. It's all better, now."

In my childish mind, the only connection I could make between my papa and Falrung's death was that I poured the wine, that he had forgotten to kiss her goodbye. That it was all, somehow, my own fault. Anya wasn't crying as I did - she was stone-faced, hated and aspired to in her seemingly mystic nine year old courage. Ever pale and silent she walked, hushed as we were lead inside the home-not-home, as we ate strange foods that made my mouth water and belly churn. As women in black smelling of powders fussed over us, pouring hot water over our head and dragging ivory combs through our hair. As mumma, ghostly and beautiful in a silk chemise, kissed us goodnight and left in the arms of the strange bearded man.

It was only when we were nestled in a new bed, a plank of wood separating us and clean, silky blankets dragged to our chins that she spoke.

"It wasn't you."

I snorted, lifting my head from the warm dampness where I'd sobbed into my pillow. Anya hoisted herself over the board, her hair - rich, autumn brown like papa's - fell from its bindings.

"Don't cry."

She nuzzled beside me, pursing her lips and solemnly taking my hands in her own. She gazed at them, brow wrinkled in thought, before moving to kiss my cheek.

"Maman says everybody dies. Like flowers in winter. S'okay." She whispered. "Don't be scared. I'll protect you."

Though not moments ago I had hated her for being so quiet and strong when so much had changed, the sisterhood that made us by default despise each other also made us inextricably intertwined. I cuddled against her, crying softly until slumber overtook us both.

I dreamed of Falrung, and papa, sinking under a suffocating winter coat of snow. I dreamed of the strange new man with his clean, waxed beard ripping up flowers. I dreamed of the wine turning green as I poured it, reeking of venom.

When my father and my dearest friend, my two teachers, died, I blamed myself for it. I did for many years after.

I was six years old.