And it was very, very wrong. Wren could feel a heaviness about him, an impenetrable grey quietness that seemed to descend from the sky and envelop him as he sat on his mother’s bed. It was an almost violent stillness, and full of dread. It reminded him of being woken in the night by a sound that he couldn’t be sure if he’d heard or just dreamt. Reminded him of those long, sweaty moments, lying in darkness, straining to hear, and being met by nothing but an oppressive silence. It was almost a living thing, beyond hearing. The Weir had changed. Wren had felt it the previous night, in the cold morning hours, before Mama had gone running from her room. Remembering it now, he wished he’d warned her earlier. But even now, in the light of day, it was still such a distant feeling and hard to put into words; like the hour before the fever comes when you know you’re going to be sick, even though nothing hurts yet. He couldn’t just ignore it, though.
