Ashes

Today the light is different, as you enter the reading room. The nook is dim, candles in elaborate candle holders, the kind with three arms and beautiful but understated lines, sit around the window seat. Rich candlelight steeps the room in autumnal tones. You settle in, glance out the window and frown. The shell of a city can be seen in the distance, smoke drifting away from it in dark sooty clouds.

But then The Book is in your hands, and your attention is drawn to the open page.

The ash fell softly like gray snow, clinging to the sleeves of her coat and the curled iron gate before her. Behind it, the house watched her — shuttered, slumped, but not entirely asleep. Orion sighed. Yesterday, life had trudged on here. Women hung laundry, laughing children had likely run, imagining dragons and knights. Now nothing left but the corpse of Widow’s Harbor and once vibrant little seaside village.

Another of The Child’s casualties.

She tilted her head back to take in the sky. Churning pillars of smoke framed a strip of stars just over the house, the smoke looked inky in the moonless night. The stars smudged and smeared, an artist’s canvas when they’ve given up and swiped a hand over wet paint.

Squaring her shoulders Orion dropped her gaze back to the Queen Anne ghost before her. It seemed to dare her to come forward. Its turrets smoldered. Its windows glared. Orion knew The Child was inside. She just wasn’t sure she was ready to meet it.

A sharp wind rushed up from the shore, pushing smoke before it, the artist with their pallet knife, clearing the canvas further. Orion pulled her coat close, buttoned the three buttons at her waist. She wouldn’t need the dagger tucked into her belt. Or the vile of Seaspray in it’s little holster. She didn’t mean to kill The Child.

The west wind caught in her hair, tugged it, then swirled around to her back and gave her a shove as it opened the iron gate. The salt crusted hinges called out a warning.

“Hush,” Orion scolded. “I only want to meet it.”

The wind withdrew with a huff. The gate waved her through.

She hesitated, one boot on the cobblestone walk, the other in the ashes of the village. What if The Child turned her to ash? Her stomach squeezed at the thought. The house cleared its throat, billows of dust puffing up from all seven chimneys. Orion squared her shoulders, and shook out her hair, ashes rained from her in a halo of dull silver. 

Her bootheels clicked smartly against the cobbles, and before she could think to turn back, her gloved hand rested on the brass door knob. She tilted her chin up a little and turned the handle.

The house sighed, smoke and soot sliding over her, coating her, but she stepped inside the dark foyer, cobwebs drifted in ragged sheets, dust curled and sifted around her feet.

“I’m not here to exercise you, Child,” she said softly. The Child would hear even if she didn’t speak at all. “I want to join you…”