Abigail is jealous of all the people who have cravings for things they can touch, can get from a magic closet or from the people around them. She's seen them: gorging themselves on candy, dancing, flirting, fighting. But she's figured out by now that, by some cruel twist of fate, she only wants things from the dead. She wants to be forgiven by those she has wronged, wants to get revenge on her father for everything he did. None of it is possible, so she can't sleep, can't focus.

It's late Saturday night and Abigail is wandering the mansion trying not to think about how much she would like to have been the one to kill her father, not to imagine different scenarios in which she'd been the one with the knife. If she'd acted first, could she have saved her mother?

She's so deep in her thoughts that, when she spots Bela, it takes her a moment to recognize the woman as one of the first people she talked to after she arrived. The English lady, the one who had told her actual, helpful facts instead of vague platitudes about how it was all going to be fine. Abigail, perceptive as she is, immediately notices the smell of alcohol: well, that is one kind of craving to have, isn't it?

"Hey Bela," she says, with a small, rather stiff wave.