When they were alone again, Éha whispered, ‘Do I have to sleep in my own bed?’
Deborah shook her head. They undressed and got into bed. As soon as they got under the covers, the little Pixie began sobbing quietly, and clung tightly to Deborah.
‘Éha? What’s the matter,’ she whispered.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . I just wish . . .’
‘Yes?’ said Deborah.
The Pixie sighed deeply and pressed her face to the older girls’ neck. ‘When you leave . . . I just don’t want to be alone again.’
Deborah could not reply. But she accepted Éha’s fervent embrace like a promise.
She awoke in the early grey hour before dawn, feeling that something was wrong. Part of her felt empty, as though something was missing. With a start, and a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she realised what it was with a shock.
Éha was gone.
She arose and got dressed in a panic, found Pran already up and putting some wood on the fire.
‘Pran, have you seen Éha?’
He nodded. ‘She went outside a while ago. I saw her walking down towards the stream. Is something the matter?’