CHAPTER 38: CROSSING THE BRIDGE
She was rooted to the spot.
Isabella stood on the other side of the river.
Marie closed her eyes and tried to lift her foot off the path and onto the bridge.
It was like putting your hand on a tree and expecting it to follow the commands of your brain like a limb. The leg was connected to her body, but she couldn’t make it move.
“Marie, what’s wrong?” Isabella asked.
They had been on their way to the wood that nestled into the scrubland just outside Saint Anne, a cool shady playground filled with rabbits and blackberries and shiny red ladybirds and the cawing of crows. Standing here, rooted to spot, with the sun baking her scalp through her red hair, Marie very much wanted to be there. But she had been caught unawares.
That tiny, nagging little sensation that had stuck in her brain like a thorn, that feeling that something wasn’t right, had suddenly grown and overtaken her brain like black brambles.