The light on Sunday morning was softer than the day before, almost golden, as if trying to pull the weariness from our bones. The lake lay still, fog hung over it like a veil, and somewhere plates clinked from the dining hall. Smoke from the chimney still hung above the roof, heavy and sluggish, as if even it knew that today was the last day.
Fiona rubbed her eyes sleepily as she sat on her bed already flipping through her camera. "I have at least twenty photos that show only Jonas's grimaces," she murmured, laughing. "I need half of them for the album."
"And the other half?" I asked, my voice still hoarse from sleep.
"Those will go on my wall. Memento of the best clown in the group." She grinned, falling backward and stretching like a cat greeting the sun.
