The birds are gone, and instead of screaming there’s a chuckle in the air.
There’s no more floor, no shadow. Cosette stops walking when Millicent begins to stumble and looks back into the gulf of dawn: it’s utter whiteness, but it’s a whiteness of void, not light. It doesn’t hurt her eyes.
This is what she sings to the sunless morning.
“Ambergris and berry dreams
India and rhyme
Carry claret honeybees
Close your eyes and swallow sleep
Night is on its way
Your ears are sharp, your tongue is keen;
Your dreams a bitter stain.”
The air keeps chuckling.