She told herself it was just a mistake. She hadn't seen the parchment downstairs because of the light--that didn't mean it wasn't there. The attic light was brighter, clearer, and fuller, albeit somehow more unsettling. The shards of glass lay on the floor, the only mess in the strange silent echo of an attic.

And then, with a sound like the distant cracking of a whip, the glittering green fragments of the broken bottle disappeared.