"There is a third," Clara said. "You said three of you."
Silence. Then Margaux's voice, lower now, careful.
"The third does not speak either. But for different reasons."
Clara turned her head. Looked toward the farthest corner — the one she had not examined, the one where the darkness was deepest and the silence was thickest and the shape was smallest.
A girl. Young — younger than Clara, perhaps fifteen, perhaps sixteen, it was impossible to tell in the dark. She was sitting with her back against the wall and her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them, and she was looking at Clara with eyes that were not reflecting light because they were not ordinary eyes. They were white. Not blind-white — seer-white. The pure, milky, luminous white of eyes that saw things that ordinary eyes could not see and paid for the seeing with the loss of everything else.
