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62. Ivan

The atmosphere of the room hung on a knife edge. Even little Freya sensed the change in tension moving back to her papa, our silly game at an end. Cherish’s wolf is new to her, both still adjusting to each other’s temperaments, I need her to not unravel here.

“Apologies, but Luna Helena, please can you clarify, you knew Ivan was in the Shadowlands all this time?”

“I did,” she said calmly, “I had…some dreams that repeated. They’re normally visions of the future.”

I tried squeezing her hand, but she was too agitated to notice. Though her tone was sweet and friendly enough her questions were laced with implications.

“I just want to check, you know exactly what Ivan has had to do to survive for the past two years?” Her blue eyes gleamed as she spoke, sat as tall and stately as the others in the bright yellow, ridiculous chairs.

Helena looked straight at me, her face paling, whilst Alexander stroked his daughters’ dark curls, his lips clamped tightly together.

“Cherish, how we got he
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George Calloni
A picture is hung. A person is hanged.
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