I fall asleep with gran’s poetry book in my hand.

As I drift off, the events of the past few days swirl through my mind like pictures made of smoke, wispy memories plucking at the edges of my consciousness.

The hungry look in Cameron’s eyes as he cornered me in the back alley.

Felix holding me in his arms in the pouring rain.

The storm.

Alastaire pulling me from the recording studio then almost kissing me in the study.

Finding the book of poems once owned by my gran.

The pain in my chest like something sharp and cold plunging into my heart.

The same pain I’m feeling now, the searing ache pulling me up, up, out of my dreams, into the light….

I bolt upright in bed, clutching my chest with both hands. My heart is racing, and I blink, my eyes adjusting to the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

It’s dark outside, probably the middle of the night or very early morning.

I must have dozed off while I was reading earlier.

The Poems of Francis Ledwidge – the moth-eaten emerald green book I found in the study – is lying next to my pillow, the gold-embossed oak leaves on the cover glinting in the lamplight.

The last thing I remember reading before nodding off was a poem gran had often sung to me as a bedtime lullaby. That book of the page is creased, dog-eared. The poem is about a water spirit who died after falling in love, which seemed to be one of Francis Ledwidge’s favorite themes – doomed love, tragic, beautiful maidens and lots and lots of flowers.

Even though I recognized the poem, it hasn’t really helped at all. I scoured the book for hours trying to find a clue, a sign, anything at all. Something, anything, that explains why Bea gave my gran this book, what their connection to the myth of the five princes is, what my role in all this is.

But instead of answers, all I’ve got are more questions. Everything’s more confusing than ever, and I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.

It all started the moment that Felix walked into the Night Owl and heard me singing. Sure, my life definitely wasn’t typical before that – being the lone survivor of a horror crash that killed all your friends and classmates isn’t exactly normal – but at least it was simple.

At least I never used to feel like I was going crazy.

I wonder if things will go back to normal after we’re finished the final song, and the boys and Kitty get on that plane, fly out of my life forever.

They told me they’ll pass my demo songs on to their manager, but even I know that nothing’s going to come of that.

They’ll leave, and my life will probably go back to how it was.

A slightly sad, depressing existence, but a safe one – a life that made sense, a life without mystery or terror.

I’ll forget about the myth, the visions, the dreams.

Maybe all the insane stuff I’ve been experiencing really has been just the feverish hallucinations and delusions of my severely traumatized, confused mind. Maybe the Three B’s are right, and I really am a nutcase. Maybe I really do need to go back onto the pills – the anti-anxiety and antipsychotic meds I was taking for months after the accident – prescribed after I told my doctor that I wanted a funeral and to be cremated and buried in the ground with the others, because I was dead, and I didn’t want to feel myself rotting away anymore.

That’s right.

The reason I can’t make any sense of anything and it all seems so crazy is because I am crazy.

Just the fact that I seriously think I might be crazy, must mean that I probably am… right?

Fantastic. Sixteen years old and I’m already losing my mind.  I wonder what I’ll be like by thirty. If I even reach that age. Somehow, I can’t imagine living that long.

My eyes well up with tears, and my vision blurs as I wipe the sadness away.

A memory comes back to me.

It was a few months after the accident. I was barely eating at that time. Putting food into my body felt pointless, bizarre, utterly wrong and unnatural. Like feeding a dead person. I’m still not sure whether or not I was consciously trying to kill myself – that period of my life is somewhat of a blur, in part thanks to the cocktail of heavy drugs I was prescribed – but I do remember being rushed to the hospital after fainting the living room one afternoon.

As I lay in the hospital bed on a drip, a long plastic feeding tube stuck painfully down my throat, I could see my mom in my dad’s arms, at the far end of the room, held back by a pair of nurses. Mom was crying. In-between her sobs, I heard her say that it was her fault.

She blamed herself for not being able to help me.

At that moment, I swore I’d never hurt her like that again. I’d get better.

I wipe away a tear as the memory of my mom’s sobbing in the hospital echoes through my mind.

I need to speak to her. I’ll go outside and see if I can get reception under the tree.

So I reach for my phone on the bedside table, but it’s not there. I pull myself out of bed with a stretch, looking under the bed and the table, then in my jeans’ pockets and my overnight bag – but my phone is nowhere to be found.

I must have left it in the recording studio.

No way am I going back in there. Felix could be doing one of his solo songwriting and recording sessions, and I’m definitely not ready to be alone with him again.

Besides, I have no idea what time it is. It’s probably like 2am. I couldn’t phone mom anyway.

I flop back down on the bed, about the crawl under the covers, when I realize that there’s a weird taste in my mouth. It’s sort of… metallic.

Blood. I must have bitten my tongue while I was sleeping. Gross.

I don’t have any water in the bedroom with me, so I pull myself out of bed and wrap a woolen shawl around my shoulders, which can’t quite cover the very flimsy, borderline porno white lace pajamas Jamie got me for my birthday last year.

It’s only a few feet from my room to the bathroom, but still… I’m living with five teenaged rock stars and a wild, devil-may-care heiress. Who knows what that girl is capable of.

I’m not letting any of them see me in my pjs, not even Kitty.

I open my bedroom door a crack, peeking out into the passageway.

Once I’m satisfied that the coast is clear, I slip out into the corridor and head towards the bathroom.

Just before I reach the bathroom door, I hear my name murmured a few feet away.

“Ashling,” the voice says. “Come join us.”

Dammit.