The light was incredibly soft. It was not the harsh, gray light of a cold London morning , nor the blinding sun of a summer afternoon. It was a warm, gentle glow, like the quiet light of a candle in a safe, peaceful room.
Delaney floated in this comforting warmth. The terrible, crushing pain in her head was completely gone. The burning ache in her throat, where Lucas had squeezed the life from her, had vanished. She felt light, peaceful, and entirely safe.
Then, a voice broke the quiet silence.
"Mon amour, ma chère fille." ( My love, my dear daughter)
The words were spoken in a soft, musical French accent.
Delaney felt her heart skip a beat. The voice was really familiar. It was a voice she had locked away in the deepest, most protected corner of her mind for twenty long years. It was a voice she thought she would never hear again.
