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that,” I sighed. “I mean things could be completely
different instead of changing a few place names, songs, books, and
movies. Whole continents could have changed, Kings and Queens could
be different, and landscapes could have changed.”
    “Perhaps they
have,” he said thoughtfully. “We haven’t been the most sociable of
people since coming back from the dead. We haven’t even stuck our
noses beyond the front gate. There could be a whole new world
waiting on the other side of those giant walls.”
    “I don’t think
so,” I told him. “Isidor and Kayla have been bringing me newspapers
and I’ve been on the net. I would have noticed any big changes like
that – they would have noticed, too. The changes that we’re talking
about are subtle. It’s like coming back from holiday and finding
that the furniture has been moved slightly and a few new pots and
pans have been added to the cupboards. It’s the same house, in the
same street, but stuff has been pushed from where you left it.”
    Then, taking me
by the hand, Potter said, “let me show you something. I’ve got a
subtle change to show you,” and he set off through the trees.
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Kiera
     
    Potter led me
by the hand through the woods. Pale shards of wintry sun cut
through the leafy overhead canopy and the smell of the pine needles
smelt fresh and sweet. Our walk through the woods was quiet, the
only sound was the odd squawk from a crow as we startled it by our
progress.
    We walked hand
in hand and for the first time since returning from the dead and
back to the manor, it felt as if we were a real couple taking a
stroll on a winter’s afternoon. But to think of this only made me
long for what we could have had if we had met someplace else other
than the Ragged Cove – in another time surrounded by a different
set of circumstances.
    The treeline
ahead began to thin, the gaps between them growing bigger. Potter
led me out into the clearing where the summerhouse stood.
    “Notice
anything different?” Potter almost seemed to whisper. “Can you see
anything that has been pushed ?”
    Just as I had
remembered it, the summerhouse was a small, squat building, painted
white, which stood on a raised wooden platform with a small set of
steps leading up to its wooden front door. But there was something
different – something had been pushed into place that hadn’t been
there before. There was a statue. Letting go of Potter’s hand, I
stepped into the clearing and walked slowly towards it. To see the
statue just standing there made me feel uneasy – on edge – and if I
still had a heart, I knew that it would be quickening in my
chest.
    I came to rest
before it. It was made of grey coloured stone and even though its
face was featureless, I knew that it was a statue of a girl. She
was bent forward slightly and had her fingers laced together as if
in prayer. To look at her reminded me of the many statues of St.
Bernadette I had seen. Whoever had sculpted this life-sized statue
of the girl had gone to tremendous detail. Her hair looked so real
that at any moment, I thought it might just flutter back from her
shoulders. She was dressed in what looked like a shroud, which came
to rest against her marble-looking toes. I say marble as her face,
hands, and feet were covered in the faintest of cracks. To look at
her was, in some freaky way, like looking back at my own reflection
as I stood alone before the mirror in my room, studying the cracks
and lines in my naked flesh.
    “Freaky, don’t
you think?” Potter asked.
    I gasped and
spun around, unaware that he had joined me by the statue.
    “Where did it
come from?” I breathed. “Who put it here?”
    “That’s the
million-dollar question,” he said, staring at the statue. “It
wasn’t here before. I should know – I spent long enough hobbling
around these grounds like the bleeding Hunchback of Notre Dame when
I was disguised as Marshall. Remember that?”
    “How could I
forget,” I