There is a vague familiarity in its rolling hills and shallow valleys, and I think I recognize it as one of the many fields bordering Birchwood Manor. But the tall grass and enormous oak trees at the edge are where any sense of comfort or recognition ends. The sky is a forbidding gray, mirrored by the ashen fields that look nothing like the rich, golden grass that sways around Birchwood much of the year. The tree line at the edge of the field is so black it is almost purple. It is a wasteland, at once recognizable and foreign in its bleakness. The cold bites through the thin fabric of my nightgown, and my feet are wet with dew as I stand on the dead grass. The ribbons are still wrapped around my wrists. The medallion is not there. The Beast will not come through me this night, but relief does not find me as it should. It is clear that I have been summoned. By whom and for what purpose I shall no doubt discover. Turning in a circle, I peer into the distance, trying to get my bearings.
