All of a sudden, every ounce of hope she still harbored within her ran out. In the old lady's eyes she read what she most dreaded. Michel was dead. Dead in the cupboard. She knew. It was too late. She had waited too long. He had not survived. He had not make it. He had died there, all alone, in the dark, with no food and no water, just the bear and the storybook, and he had trusted her, he had waited, he had probably called out to her, screamed her name again and again, "Sirka, Sirka, where are you!" He was dead, because of her. If she had not locked him up that day, he could have been here, right now, she could be bathing him now, this instant. She should have watched over him. she should have brought him here to safety. It was her fault. It was all her fault.
The girl crumple to the floor, a broken being. Wave after wave of despair washed over her. Never in her short life had she know such acute pain. "she felt Genevieve gather her close, stroke her shorn head, murmur words of comfort. She let herself go, surrendered herself completely to the kind old arms that encircled her. Then she felt the sweet sensation of a soft mattress and clean sheets enveloping her. She fell into a strange, trouble slumber.
Sarah's Key By Tatina De Rosnay
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