used in Fundelry when first learning how to draw. And even though of late she had begun to wonder if it might be insufficient, it was all she had. Time was running out. It would have to do.
Time.
She reached up to touch the back of her neck. Her hackles were rising, which could only mean one thing. The girl was back.
‘D’you see this?’ she asked, speaking not to Bartholomew but to the empty air, to the one she knew was watching. ‘Are you looking with your eyes open, this time? I haven’t spent my entire life on this just so you can screw it up.’
There was no answer. Thus far there hadn’t been, although she could feel the link growing closer every time. True conversation was inevitable at some point. Huffing quietly to herself, Shilly slowly moved her ageing body out onto the sand, stepping delicately across marks she’d made weeks, months, even years before. The resin Bartholomew had applied to the finished sections protected it from footprints, but she still trod lightly over complex whorls and rayed stars, and between sections defined by arterial lines as long and straight as a taut string. She knew every mark of the charm intimately, lovingly. She felt potential radiating from it, even though she herself would never be able to wield it.
It took her a gratifyingly long time to reach the centre of the charm from its outermost edge. Her life’s work wasn’t complete, but it still covered a space as large as a small town. She was proud of it, and wished only for the chance to finish it before she died.
‘Get it down, girl,’ she said, hearing the disgruntlement in her voice and knowing it came from the ever-present fear of failure. There was no time to be pleasant. ‘Take down every detail. Don’t miss a smudge. You’ll probably have to finish it without me, the way things are going here, so don’t waste this opportunity. It might not come again.’
Her weakening eyes watered at the charm’s mind- and space-bending properties. Sometimes when she stood as she was now and just looked at it, letting her eyes skate over its form rather than dive down into its intricacies, she felt awestruck at what she had accomplished. She had always known that she could bring great things into the world, given the chance. Her talent might not have been for the Change itself, as Sal’s had been, but hers had ultimately, in a way, been the most powerful. The Change burned too brightly if used unwisely.
Shilly blinked tears from her eyes. Damned charm making them water , she told herself, even though she knew that was a lie. She wanted to tell the watcher to kiss Sal for her, to convey some of the feelings that had been bottled up and preserved for so long. But she held her tongue; she kept it all in. In her world-line, she would never see Sal again. She was used to that idea now, even if the pain never went away.
‘Get this right for Sal’s sake,’ she told her younger self in a world where there was still hope.
‘He’ll need it, and he’ll need you. And you need him just as badly. Don’t make the mistake I made — not unless you want to end up like me. And who would want that, eh?’
Not a ghost of a reply came down the link connecting her to her other self. Brushing the memories and hope aside, along with her fears, she hobbled to the far edge of the resin and dipped the tip of her cane into the soft sand beyond. With smooth, economical gestures, she began once again to draw.
* * * *
Shilly opened her eyes. The image of a flat expanse of sand etched with lines in a pattern too intense to comprehend briefly overlaid itself onto the broad shelf of perfectly white snow that lay before her, wind-carved into a series of intricate ripples. The colour was wrong, and the temperature was much colder than it had been in the dream, and instead of one tiny man’kin there were dozens all around her, and glowing green people, and an old man who wasn’t quite a man, and —
Shilly closed her eyes at
Time.
She reached up to touch the back of her neck. Her hackles were rising, which could only mean one thing. The girl was back.
‘D’you see this?’ she asked, speaking not to Bartholomew but to the empty air, to the one she knew was watching. ‘Are you looking with your eyes open, this time? I haven’t spent my entire life on this just so you can screw it up.’
There was no answer. Thus far there hadn’t been, although she could feel the link growing closer every time. True conversation was inevitable at some point. Huffing quietly to herself, Shilly slowly moved her ageing body out onto the sand, stepping delicately across marks she’d made weeks, months, even years before. The resin Bartholomew had applied to the finished sections protected it from footprints, but she still trod lightly over complex whorls and rayed stars, and between sections defined by arterial lines as long and straight as a taut string. She knew every mark of the charm intimately, lovingly. She felt potential radiating from it, even though she herself would never be able to wield it.
It took her a gratifyingly long time to reach the centre of the charm from its outermost edge. Her life’s work wasn’t complete, but it still covered a space as large as a small town. She was proud of it, and wished only for the chance to finish it before she died.
‘Get it down, girl,’ she said, hearing the disgruntlement in her voice and knowing it came from the ever-present fear of failure. There was no time to be pleasant. ‘Take down every detail. Don’t miss a smudge. You’ll probably have to finish it without me, the way things are going here, so don’t waste this opportunity. It might not come again.’
Her weakening eyes watered at the charm’s mind- and space-bending properties. Sometimes when she stood as she was now and just looked at it, letting her eyes skate over its form rather than dive down into its intricacies, she felt awestruck at what she had accomplished. She had always known that she could bring great things into the world, given the chance. Her talent might not have been for the Change itself, as Sal’s had been, but hers had ultimately, in a way, been the most powerful. The Change burned too brightly if used unwisely.
Shilly blinked tears from her eyes. Damned charm making them water , she told herself, even though she knew that was a lie. She wanted to tell the watcher to kiss Sal for her, to convey some of the feelings that had been bottled up and preserved for so long. But she held her tongue; she kept it all in. In her world-line, she would never see Sal again. She was used to that idea now, even if the pain never went away.
‘Get this right for Sal’s sake,’ she told her younger self in a world where there was still hope.
‘He’ll need it, and he’ll need you. And you need him just as badly. Don’t make the mistake I made — not unless you want to end up like me. And who would want that, eh?’
Not a ghost of a reply came down the link connecting her to her other self. Brushing the memories and hope aside, along with her fears, she hobbled to the far edge of the resin and dipped the tip of her cane into the soft sand beyond. With smooth, economical gestures, she began once again to draw.
* * * *
Shilly opened her eyes. The image of a flat expanse of sand etched with lines in a pattern too intense to comprehend briefly overlaid itself onto the broad shelf of perfectly white snow that lay before her, wind-carved into a series of intricate ripples. The colour was wrong, and the temperature was much colder than it had been in the dream, and instead of one tiny man’kin there were dozens all around her, and glowing green people, and an old man who wasn’t quite a man, and —
Shilly closed her eyes at
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