writing_shadows

Rea sat under a tree at the edge of a garden, arms around her knees. She didn’t rock; instead, she was perfectly still. The wind ruffled her hair and the ivy that grew in it. A small clockwork robin fed on worms nearby.

It is very hard, thought Rea, to have a fast conversation with a tree. What you want is a proper sit-down and a season or two to converse. Memories came more easily that way, for both parties concerned. She was sure she could have gotten more out of the birch at the tower if she’d just had time. Or, more precisely, if she’d still been someone that time ignored.

She shifted slightly as a squirrel ran up to her shoulder, and absentmindedly tickled its chin before sending it on its way. Still no noise.

She needed to be quiet. She was exhausted. What they didn’t understand—Carin, Cormac, any of them—was that to talk to a flower or a birch, something flowery, graceful, something where manners mattered, she had to remember. Remember Her, the way She spoke. Her hundred mouths singing in harmony so perfect it hurt. Vestigere trying to harmonise, doing better than any mortal, but still losing chunks of his flesh and soul to Her appetite, and being expected to keep up his banter all the while…

She sighed the long sigh of a chieftain tree. Ivy faded and dropped to dust.

Carin needed to learn to talk to things. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

In her rucksack a flower still held its secret gifts.