Maisie was running.

Running away from the Healing Towers. Running away from her own mistakes.

It was cool and misty, not humid at all, and yet, she felt as if she was on fire. Every bump, every crack, every damned exposed root along the ground made her rock back a bit, forcing bile up her throat and into her mouth.

She couldn't believe what she had done.

She had dropped a memory of the Healer on High's son. After years of working as a healer, she had dropped a memory. Hell, there was a reason she always did that instead of Asley; her twin was the clumsy one, and she was not.

And yet, she had dropped a memory. A memory that had nearly strangled the boy who it belonged to.

But that wasn't the end.

Because she had then blamed her sister for it. She had stuck the memory of herself doing it into her sister's mind -- knowing that they looked completely identical, knowing that Asley wouldn't even question the strange memory that didn't quite work with how she felt.

Then, Asley got the blame. She accepted the blame.

And Maisie was running -- she had hurtled down the stairs before the Healer on High could read her mind and learn the truth.

But why? Why?

She loved the Healer on High far more than Asley did. Why would she lie to the very woman who she adored like her own mother?

And why would she blame her sister?

Her sister, who she had caught from a tree -- or had her sister caught her?

Her sister, who she had raced up flights and flights of stairs just to get her healed.

Had that been her?

Yes, it had. Her sister was allergic to lemons. She had eaten one just to be sure of it; Asley was allergic to lemons, she was not.

And why did it feel like all her memories weren't quite adding up?

Each step felt horrible.

Maisie only had one free hand clinging onto her skirt, while the other fervently clutched onto the rail. She was facing outwards, slowly and slowly moving down the ladders, legs shaking, her grip on the railing locked.

It was just stairs, she told herself. Just stairs.

And yet, the second she made it down the fourth ladder, one of the wooden planks fell askew, breaking away and its lower end from the landing, falling straight into the open abyss.

Maisie stared at the broken step before her -- the one which she had been seconds away from putting her foot on -- she froze.

No, no, no...

There were booby-traps. As if climbing down hundreds of ladders in the dark hadn't been awful enough, there were booby-traps, too. Stairs collapsing at her very touch.

How hadn't Asley felt the same problem? How?

Paralysis held onto her for a few minutes, her breath coming hard, nausea swirling a red mist at the edge of her eyes.

She wanted to go back. More than anything, she wanted to climb back up the ladders to the solid stone above, to be safe, to be held secure--

But even then, she could remember her sister's hysterical voice as she had climbed down the ladders. As a memory haunted her every step.

So, even as she hung there, impaled by fear, she kept going.

She unclenched her hand and forced her numb legs to move, her feet -- that felt more like blocks of ice -- searching for the next step down, her heart in her throat as she leapt over the gaping hole and found it. With a short pause, she was running again. Two flights, four her heart beating hard until she reached another awful, awful step.

The step quivered at her touch, and a thin shriek rang out. Wood snapping.

Oh, shit.

There was no choice. She quickly reached to the side and took hold of the scaffold -- the crossbeam was only at just at her chest -- and stepped sideways, one foot at a time, onto a beam that was levelled with the landing. There she clung on, frozen again, for a minute.

Move, Maisie. Move.

And, with another shaking breath, she moved. Her hands were slick with cold sweat as she let one leg sink below the beam, lower and lower, until her arms were outstretched above. She could find the landing, she could and she would--

Her swinging foot found metal and locked there.

Thank the lord.

She let her whole body sink, arms dropping to the next rung.

If she had to go down the damn scaffolding just to get to the stairs, she bloody hell would.

With a suck of air, she swung her leg free and climbed another rung down. A pause, then her foot went searching again, found metal, locked there. Then, before she could lower herself again, there was a click.

A click that left the crossbeam beneath her foot giving way completely, clattering into oblivion, leaving Maisie hanging there by her arms.

She let out a wail, scrabbled to climb back up, but she could rise that high and her hands were losing grip because they were so damned slick with sweat--

And she fell.

It wasn't a long fall -- just a metre, perhaps, onto the next landing. Against her weight, it shuddered, but held. And she lay there in a heap, legs bent painfully beneath her, arms wrapped around a railing support, her eyes closed as she fought back tears.

But she heard Asley scream, dozens and dozens of stairs beneath her.

So, she got up, wiped at her red eyes, and kept going down.

She thought that, by ladder eighty, the fear would be muted. But, as she forced herself downwards step by step, not once did her pounding heart ease. Each new flight had a different trap; some rungs trembled silently under her feet before breaking free, others groaned and complained with their wooden voices even as they held firm.

Twice more, she was forced to climb down by the scaffold because of broken stairs. Each time felt even harder, with every misstep echoing in her head, with every thought of the beams giving way etched into her mind.

And she didn't dare feel for the numbers on the ladders. She wasn't falling for that trap.

So, she had no idea what ladder she was up to when she saw the white bundled shape, floating in midair, suspended there. Held up by--

Blue mist. Soft, magical, fog.

A memory.

And it was worse than she had thought it would be.

It was the Healer on High, but she was bigger than a bloody horse -- all blue and mottled white, eyes like depths of blue ink. With two long strides, it was on the landing before her, snarling.

"My son," it hissed. "You broke him, Maisie..."

Maisie felt her throat catch.

No.

No, no, no.

If this was the Healer on High's own memory, then she would have thought Asley was to blame, all because of that fake memory she had planted years ago. But the memory knew it had been her that had dropped the crystal pen.

How?

She had no time to think on it. Because, in that second, the memory lunged.

Maisie tried to launch her palm forward, hoping that maybe -- just maybe -- she would be able to suck it in, spin it into a crystal pen with her own bare hands. But the memory moved so swiftly that it was like a rush of cold wind against Maisie, forcing her to shriek and slip, her whole body screaming with agony as she fell onto the landing with a sickening crack.

Her arm felt like it couldn't move. Her nose felt warm with blood.

But, from the corner of her eye, she could see the mist around Asley drifting away as the memory kept its attention solely on the twin without the mask.

"Maisie," it whispered. "You broke his heart..."

Maisie felt behind her, tried to snatch a beam from the scaffolding. It loosened in her hands, a small click ringing in her hands as she tried to bring it forwards and slash the memory.

But it was like fighting a spirit. A ghost.

Impossible.

"Suck it in, Maisie," Asley was saying, clinging onto the scaffolding herself, her face pale. "Turn it into a pen. Quick!"

The memory slammed its feet beside Maisie's head. It was so, so close, the reek of death reeking from the old lady's face.

"My son..."

Maisie flung her good arm forwards, shoving it straight through the memory. It flinched back as the face of the old woman faded and shrank, blurred and shuddered, before clearing back. Furious.

"Maisie..."

Maisie struck her hand forwards, sucking it in before the memory had the chance to move. It crawled up over her fingers, twisting and swirling up her arms, moving along her skin as if she were braiding it like strands of hair.

There it was again -- the ache in her muscles as the mist swept into her, clogging her throat and nose. But that was good. That's what always happened when she pulled memories from people's heads; the ache, the breathlessness. That was normal.

So when the memory shrieked and pulled back suddenly, hitting Maisie like a slap across her face, she almost fell off the landing.

It should have worked. She had been so close. The memory had been vulnerable for just enough time, and she wasn't out of practise. Hell, she had been working with memories for the past two years.

It should have worked. And yet, it didn't.

Because--

Because--

"It came from a memory pen," Maisie called out to Asley. "We can't give it a new pen!"

Asley swore.

Then, just as the memory swiped at Maisie's face, Asley darted down the stairs, yanked her sister up, and they were running.

They even outraced the traps, with Asley's quick footing and sharp tugs just enough to send Maisie bounding over the pits in the rungs. Tearing down the stairs, leaping onto the landings, they did not stop, even as the memory screeched and crashed just behind them, its cold licking the back of their necks.

Even as they were running, Maisie couldn't help but note than Asley seemed to know every fall in the stairs. She jumped at the right moment, held back just in time to let stairs crumble before them, and lunged over the landings as if she knew the place like the back of her hand.

She wanted to ask the masked girl, but she didn't. Instead, faster and faster they pushed, their eyes peering through the dark, searching for a shining crystal pen. Then, the memory's hands reached out and shoved her. Hard.

Maisie felt Asley's grip lose her, and her own hand groped out, found air, and she tumbled into nothingness. Screaming, but soundless, she plummeted into the gale.

She hit the metal again, hard, the breath slammed from her as she writhed and rolled there. The air gone from her lungs. The pain spreading over her skin with every heartbeat.

"Get up," Asley was whispering in her ear. "Get up. For me. Please."

And, despite it all, the breath came back into her, gasping and convulsive. Nothing seemed broken as Asley helped her up, though her arm still ached with every swing. But there was no time to stop -- no time to even be grateful. Down and down they went, thinking nothing, hoping nothing, but feeling the great thuds behind them as the memory screamed.

As they reached the final landing, Maisie dropped to her knees, blood dribbling between her beaten toes. Her hands felt for everything, curving along the floors, scrabbling for--

The pen.

There.

"Got it!" she called out.

Asley's sigh of relief was almost as strained as Maisie's own. "Use it, dammit! Use it!"

Maisie didn't need to be told twice.

She spun around, one hand propping herself up as she aimed the pen at the memory.

Screaming. Hissing. Calling out her name.

Maisie, Maisie, Maisie...

The memory contorterd. Shrank. Shivered.

Then, inch by inch, it slipped into the pen.

Maisie's hand still shook, even as she cradled it against her chest. Even as Asley reached out and hugged her.

If this memory had been from a memory pen, it could only mean that someone had dropped it there. Planted it there.

Waiting for it to kill her.

"You okay?" Asley asked softly.

Maisie nodded. "Fine. Nothing like being chased by a memory to keep the spirits high, aye?"

With a smile, Asley turned away. Leaving Maisie to her own thoughts.

Who had planted the memory?

And how did the Healer on High know that she had hurt her son, not Asley?