Sarah looked at Miriam in alarm.

"Here?" She questioned, cautious. When she pictured fog, it was either the rolling grey over the hills here, that saw Irvingly nestled in a cloud of moisture and freshness, tucked away from the world - or else the heavy smoke of cities, that clung to brick and lungs and clothes. Neither, not even the latter, were what she would describe as angry, so she could scarcely picture what Cassandra had seen. How could fog be angry, how could it feel anything at all?

She glanced out at the sky, the sun gleaming down at them almost incredulously. Perhaps their sister was not talking about weather at all? Her predictions were hardly so - mundane - as seeing weather. Was there no other clue to this fog? "That's all you saw?"

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