There was no season, no setting and rising of a sun or a moon, no sandy planets in her dreams, no steeples and spires and spiders. There was just her on a chair, rocking back and forwards, in an empty room, of a turreted building, on a tall, tall hill. With loose spools of wool and needles sparkling by the windowsill she was alone and colourless but for her apricot mouth thoughtful and wordless. She mused on the Disappearing Act, these Magicians. She had seen them long ago when her own skin had been of smoke and mirrors. But that was long ago and she was frightful now at her recollections being anything more than a fine vapour over all she had really been through.
Tossing her head to the side she threw the skeins to the floor before her and rose, sighing heavily, though without drama, and walked in her thin night rail to the windowsill that glittered with small needles and she stared at the hillside below.
She had felt an impression of warmth and poetry and song and forgotten lore in the presence of the Three that had disappeared in recent days from her vision. It had left her speechless and in desire for days. They all beguiled her.
Like strangled in pearls of a wild wisdom she felt herself soar, wishing to sleep. Fantasies were best for the wild ones, and she was not that, any more.
"I'm not so wicked anymore Jack"
"As if wickedness can just be wiped away, like chalk from a chalkboard" Jack Scot replied.
And timidly she had raised her head and smiled, crookedly, sweetly.
"It's not gone, just hiding"
Otherworldliness she could appreciate. Being a plain, mortal thing. The colour of ash, and as distinct a lightness, to be blown away.
She returned to her seat and sat there for the rest of the age of that eclipse. It was a blood moon outside. And she knitted again, taking her thrown instruments from the floor, and she sewed Summer. Green, unnatural, thunderstorms. She smiled when done, content, and decided she would give it to Linerel. If just to see his reaction.
Tossing her head to the side she threw the skeins to the floor before her and rose, sighing heavily, though without drama, and walked in her thin night rail to the windowsill that glittered with small needles and she stared at the hillside below.
She had felt an impression of warmth and poetry and song and forgotten lore in the presence of the Three that had disappeared in recent days from her vision. It had left her speechless and in desire for days. They all beguiled her.
Like strangled in pearls of a wild wisdom she felt herself soar, wishing to sleep. Fantasies were best for the wild ones, and she was not that, any more.
"I'm not so wicked anymore Jack"
"As if wickedness can just be wiped away, like chalk from a chalkboard" Jack Scot replied.
And timidly she had raised her head and smiled, crookedly, sweetly.
"It's not gone, just hiding"
Otherworldliness she could appreciate. Being a plain, mortal thing. The colour of ash, and as distinct a lightness, to be blown away.
She returned to her seat and sat there for the rest of the age of that eclipse. It was a blood moon outside. And she knitted again, taking her thrown instruments from the floor, and she sewed Summer. Green, unnatural, thunderstorms. She smiled when done, content, and decided she would give it to Linerel. If just to see his reaction.