I was sure that the walls of the room had been built thickly enough to prevent a ray of candlelight from entering, but it did enter, and my husband was turned into a dove.
When I came to him, he was sitting on the bed. “For seven years I must fly about the world,” he said. “At every seventh step you take, I will let a drop of blood fall at your feet, and a white feather, so that you can follow the trace, and release me.”
I’ve gone farther into the world than I ever thought possible, and now, the seven years are almost over. But the trail of blood has stopped. Where to now?