She owns him now: he is hers, he is completely hers, his deep drowning eyes, his pale skin, his lovely hair, as soft and fine as swansdown. His heart is soaked in her father's blood, and thus he loves her and her alone.

Will you not come to me? she whispers, brushing out her hair and watching herself in the mirror. The window is open behind her, letting in the air and sun, but her room is all shadows, as is appropriate for the Crow Princess, the Lady of the Dark, the Raven's own Daughter.

She knows he will come to her. It beats in her throat, it runs in her veins, it whispers in her ears: he must be hers, he must, he must. She will wait for him here. That is all there is to it.

Waiting as the sun draws away, across the hours, and the light changes to darkness: waiting in her room, because her father has told her so, and because he has said he will come to her, once he has found his sacrifice, and there is nothing more for her to do.

Waiting here in her uselessness, in the old darkness, brushing out her hair: she would sing, but a raven has no voice for singing, and she would dance, but this place is too small, too confined, and she cannot leave it, not when he has said he will come.

She waits and watches the moonlight coming through the windows: it falls in white lines across the worn floor, and she sits there, hair all darkness, eyes all shadow, and waits for him to open the bars of her cage and call her to him.