Days later, Calypso still couldn't sleep. Not after how scared she felt earlier.
She paced across the plush carpet of her chamber in Hearthome, the borrowed body of Lady Selene moving less gracefully than her divine form. The wine-red hair that wasn't hers swayed with each turn, catching the light from the dying fire. Outside, thick, silent flakes spiraled down, building a rampart of white on the windowsill. The temperature hovered around thirty degrees—practically balmy compared to the bitter cold she'd heard about in the northern reaches.
The grip of anxiety had loosened, but the headache was a stubborn phantom. It tugged her attention northeast, an insistent child pulling at her sleeve, demanding she look. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to soothe the throbbing.
"You should be resting," Margaret said from the doorway. Or rather, Margot—the name this world knew her by.
