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Shaking, shaking, she lifted slender fingertips to the frost-rimed window.
Her father's chair creaked in punctuation to the low voices that disturbed the peace of the library. A word, a phrase or few, they were talking about her – what to do with her – what could be done with her, a child of seven.
She wanted to turn and scream at them all, throw a tantrum as she hadn't since before the accident ("You can't act like a baby anymore, Sakura," her father's voice warned in memory, "you're my heir now,"), chase them out of the room to leave her alone with the ghosts. There would be more talk, though, and more counselors with soft smiles and bored eyes. The sun was lowering beyond the white trees; soon her aunt would call for dinner, and then she'd be sent off to bed, free at last.
Soft footsteps approached. Sakura dropped her hand to her side and turned to face her aunt.
"Sakura," her aunt hesitated, fidgeting with her dark hair, "what would you think of going away for school?"
Sakura blinked. "Away?"
"Yes." Seeing no alarm, her aunt rushed to elaborate. "There is a special school in America for highly gifted children, and you were invited to attend when it opened last year. Your father," her aunt's voice faltered at Sakura's flinch, "wanted to keep you at home, but now…"
"Now," Sakura echoed, feeling cold steal up her spine.
"I feel that it would be best for you to take advantage of the great opportunity they offer." An attempt at a smile, at making it sound like anything but what it was.
Sakura took a long look at her aunt. Then she looked beyond, to the men sitting around her father's desk. One of them raised his hand in an aborted wave, laying it back down as he took in her narrowed eyes.
"Are these the bad men?" she whispered.
"No," a choked laugh, "of course not. They're perfectly fine men, and they want to take good care of you. You'll be safe in America." A hand touched Sakura's shoulder, shaking her. "I promise."
"Can I come visit the house sometimes?" Sakura looked up at her aunt with every drop of pleading she could muster.
"The house?" her aunt murmured, caught off-guard. "The house…"
"And you, of course," Sakura said, after a moment's reflection.
"I am afraid that the house must be sold." One of the men stood and walked toward them, face grave. "The note taken out on the property three months ago outweighs the value of the rest of the estate. The only way to salvage any inheritance for the young lady," he made a small bow to her, which she acknowledged automatically, "is to sell the house and all other property which is not of, shall we say, overwhelming sentimental value."
Sakura stared at him as her aunt cleared her throat and held forth on the lateness of the hour, how tired they all must be, how their company had been such a pleasure but really…
"How?" Her voice was small but clear. "Where did it go?"
He viewed her over her aunt's shoulder; his lips tight, he gave a short nod and said, "The funds were forwarded to a Swiss bank account. I am afraid that they can't be traced beyond that point."
Sakura didn't understand, but mouthed a "thank you" anyway as her aunt propelled the man toward the door.
"In the morning," her aunt said, "you will leave. Now, go to sleep." She walked Sakura up to the echoing bedroom; the door clicked shut.
In the morning. Sakura tried to close her eyes and sleep, but could only shake.