THE STOLEN HEIR
INTRODUCTION
A passerby discovered a toddler sitting on the chilly concrete of an alley, playing with the wrapper of a cat food container. By the time she was brought to the hospital, her limbs were blue with cold. She was a
wizened little thing, too thin, made of sticks.
She knew only one word, her name. When
Her skin retained a slight bluish cast, resembling skimmed milk as she grew. Her foster parents bundled her up in jackets and coats and mittens and gloves, but unlike her sister, she was never cold. Her lip color changed like a mood ring, staying bluish and purple even in summer, turning pink only
when close to a fire. And she could play in the snow for hours, constructing elaborate tunnels and mock-fighting with icicles, coming inside only when
called.
Although she appeared bony and frail, she was strong. By the time she was eight, she could lift bags of groceries that her adoptive mother struggled with. By the time she was nine, she was gone.
As a child, Wren read lots of fairy tales. That’s why when the monsters
came, she knew it was because she had been wicked. They snuck in through her window, pushing up the jamb and slashing
the screen so silently that she slept on, curled around her favourite stuffed fox. She woke only when she felt claws touch her ankle.