Lady Charlotte Christianson shivered underneath her covers. Her long dark hair was now plastered to her forehead and cheeks, which were damp with sweat. Her fever had spiked.
She looked bleary-eyed at the figure that shimmered next to her bed.
“Fern.” she murmured.
“Michael?” she croaked, with a twinge of hope.
The figure drew near.
Pitiful, pathetic little girl.
Lonely and bitter at the age of twenty.
Charlotte reached her hand out toward the figure.
Unwed and unwanted.
“Grandmother?” she asked, recoiling.
How are those hands?
Terrified, Charlotte backed away from the figure until she tumbled off the bed, striking her head against the wall.