screwed her eyes shut, then stared out again. The view was back to normal. Yet all her senses were heightened and confused, sparking with fierce, hot energy.
Animals were more sensitive to witchwork than humans. It was why they made good familiars. It was said they could detect the onset of fae; some people thought they had a fae of their own, and that they used it to commune with witches.
Is it –? Is this how –?
No. Don’t start , she told herself, in a kind of panic. Don’t think about it, just do .
The cat, unconcerned, had gone back to its grooming. This gave her an idea. Light-headed, she went to find the jumper she’d been wearing yesterday, when she had stroked the cat. Sure enough, the front was covered in cat hair. Her trembling fingers raked over the wool until she had gathered a small, greyish-brown clump. The activity calmed her, giving her a focus for the gathering pressure in her head.
Thank Hecate. The animal was still there when she got back to the window. It was stiff and watchful. Listening, as if it had been called . . . Glory pulled out a couple of hairs of her own, and entwined them with the cat fur. Then she spat on it. Like everything else, this was pure instinct. But although she hadn’t seen anyone else do what she was attempting, her trembles had gone, and she felt strong and sure.
She kept the cat in view as she rolled the spit-dampened twist of hair and fur into a thread across her palm. Carefully, she looped it around her right forefinger, like a collar or ring. Then she held her hand up to the window, and beckoned.
The cat flicked its tail, but its unnatural stiffness did not change. Something was missing.
Glory thought back to their first encounter, and the crooning, kissing noises she had made when cuddling the cat. She made them again. In response, the animal opened its mouth in a soundless hiss. Still crooning, Glory beckoned it down from the fence. This time it obeyed. Her finger circled the air. The cat circled on the ground. She pointed left, and the cat followed. Right, and it came back again. She laughed delightedly.
All the while, she had glimpses of a second view, colour-bleached yet impossibly vivid, teeming with movements sensed rather than seen. Her own nose twitched at scents of blood and earth. As she drew the cat across the garden, she felt the coarse scratch of concrete under its paws.
The animal drew closer. Dark stars danced at the edge of her vision. The world reeled and sparkled, and Glory fell to the floor.
When she awoke from her faint or sleep or whatever it was, it was late afternoon and the house was quiet. She was a little stiff, but otherwise fine. No heightened perceptions or shooting stars.
Could she have dreamed it? Or exaggerated and confused what she thought she’d seen? There’d been a mortifying occasion when she was eleven and got the flu, and bragged to everyone that her overheated state was the onset of fae. The memory still made her wince.
She didn’t really doubt herself, though. Whatever she had felt, and seen, and done, was true. It was imprinted on her soul. Its aura still hung in the air around her.
Glory went to the drawer in her bedside table, and took out the photograph she kept there. Now that everything had changed, she wondered if she would find a resemblance to the stranger in the frame . . . the face that haunted her visions of the Burning Court. The woman’s eyes were guarded, distant, even though she was smiling. It was the same in every other photo of her mother, even the ones from her wedding day. Edie Starling, thought Glory, had always had the look of someone who was preparing to leave.
Perhaps Edie had been raised that way. Her mother Cora had been the wilder of the Starling Twins; Edie’s father could have been any one of the assorted celebrities, politicians and crooks Cora was partying with at the time. When Edie turned eight, Cora had had some kind of breakdown, quarrelled with Lily, and disappeared,
Animals were more sensitive to witchwork than humans. It was why they made good familiars. It was said they could detect the onset of fae; some people thought they had a fae of their own, and that they used it to commune with witches.
Is it –? Is this how –?
No. Don’t start , she told herself, in a kind of panic. Don’t think about it, just do .
The cat, unconcerned, had gone back to its grooming. This gave her an idea. Light-headed, she went to find the jumper she’d been wearing yesterday, when she had stroked the cat. Sure enough, the front was covered in cat hair. Her trembling fingers raked over the wool until she had gathered a small, greyish-brown clump. The activity calmed her, giving her a focus for the gathering pressure in her head.
Thank Hecate. The animal was still there when she got back to the window. It was stiff and watchful. Listening, as if it had been called . . . Glory pulled out a couple of hairs of her own, and entwined them with the cat fur. Then she spat on it. Like everything else, this was pure instinct. But although she hadn’t seen anyone else do what she was attempting, her trembles had gone, and she felt strong and sure.
She kept the cat in view as she rolled the spit-dampened twist of hair and fur into a thread across her palm. Carefully, she looped it around her right forefinger, like a collar or ring. Then she held her hand up to the window, and beckoned.
The cat flicked its tail, but its unnatural stiffness did not change. Something was missing.
Glory thought back to their first encounter, and the crooning, kissing noises she had made when cuddling the cat. She made them again. In response, the animal opened its mouth in a soundless hiss. Still crooning, Glory beckoned it down from the fence. This time it obeyed. Her finger circled the air. The cat circled on the ground. She pointed left, and the cat followed. Right, and it came back again. She laughed delightedly.
All the while, she had glimpses of a second view, colour-bleached yet impossibly vivid, teeming with movements sensed rather than seen. Her own nose twitched at scents of blood and earth. As she drew the cat across the garden, she felt the coarse scratch of concrete under its paws.
The animal drew closer. Dark stars danced at the edge of her vision. The world reeled and sparkled, and Glory fell to the floor.
When she awoke from her faint or sleep or whatever it was, it was late afternoon and the house was quiet. She was a little stiff, but otherwise fine. No heightened perceptions or shooting stars.
Could she have dreamed it? Or exaggerated and confused what she thought she’d seen? There’d been a mortifying occasion when she was eleven and got the flu, and bragged to everyone that her overheated state was the onset of fae. The memory still made her wince.
She didn’t really doubt herself, though. Whatever she had felt, and seen, and done, was true. It was imprinted on her soul. Its aura still hung in the air around her.
Glory went to the drawer in her bedside table, and took out the photograph she kept there. Now that everything had changed, she wondered if she would find a resemblance to the stranger in the frame . . . the face that haunted her visions of the Burning Court. The woman’s eyes were guarded, distant, even though she was smiling. It was the same in every other photo of her mother, even the ones from her wedding day. Edie Starling, thought Glory, had always had the look of someone who was preparing to leave.
Perhaps Edie had been raised that way. Her mother Cora had been the wilder of the Starling Twins; Edie’s father could have been any one of the assorted celebrities, politicians and crooks Cora was partying with at the time. When Edie turned eight, Cora had had some kind of breakdown, quarrelled with Lily, and disappeared,
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