‘So.
It all starts when she wakes up.
The young girl with hair the colour of a crow’s feather.
Curled up in the top room of a dusty inn that’s seen better days.

Morning light filters in through the moth-bitten curtains and turns the insides of her eyelids red.

She wakes up curled under the covers of a warm bed, stuffed with straw —'

‘It’s cold.’

‘It’s toasty warm.’

‘ I Literally cannot feel my toes, Eliza.’

‘Well —'

‘Like, At All.’

‘This little girl has a tendency to be overdramatic.’

“Little” —

‘But nevertheless she wakes up under the covers —'

‘I really don’t like that you’ve used the word “little” —'

‘This little girl is too chatty for the narrator’s liking —'

‘Just don’t say “little” —'

‘Fine, Perfectly Average Sized Girl For Her Age.
Satisfied?’

‘Better.’

‘So.
She wakes up —
And she reaches up and stre-e-e-tches out her arms.
Like this, see?
All the way up.
One — Two — Three — Stretch.
They stretch together.
And she wiggles her toes.’

They wiggle their toes.

‘And she Whips the covers off her head and —’

She whips the covers off their heads.

‘It’s freezing!’

‘It’s refreshing.’

‘How long has she been asleep for?’

‘Hours and hours.
She’s slept like a rock.
But all of a sudden, she hears a tap — tap — tap — on the inn’s windowpane.’

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s a bird —
A little bird with bright blue feathers and a butter yellow beak.’

‘I need to let it in.’

‘It dives in and nips at her fingers.’

‘Ouch!’