Jane tries not to remember. After all, she was only thirteen and much too young, and who could blame her. In fact most of the time she pretends it was all a dream.
When they appeared in her room that night she told herself that too, that it was only a dream. But she had never dreamed of beautiful stately women wrapped in golden robes, and never would again.
Their first words were an apology. "We would never intrude upon you like this, Hara, if it were not the darkest of hours."
And Jane sat against her headboard, trembling, with the texture of the bedsheets clutched tightly in her hands telling her that this was real. She didn't speak, or call for help. Now she can't explain that, but she doesn't have to, since she has never told anyone.
"My name isn't Hara. It's Jane."
"You are Hara, and Jane. And I am Maryama," the tallest one told her. "From the land of Thorn. These are my c