Previous: Enshrined, Part One
Hazel waited in a dark, well-appointed chamber without any windows. She sat on a plush, deep blue velvet sofa, eyeing the blue and green flames that flickered behind glass sconces on the stone walls. The lights dimly illuminated tapestries woven into scenes of star-studded night skies, which gave the room a feeling of openness that Hazel had not expected. It was strangely comfortable there, and that made her uneasy.
The door opened and a man wearing a black robe embroidered along the sleeves and hem with glimmering silver thread walked in. “So. I’m told you want to become a Necromancer.”
I’ve been thinking a lot about ravens lately. Probably in part because autumn is here and Halloween is approaching, and the general atmosphere outside has been rather raven-esque. It’s probably also because I’ve been reading—and just recently finished—Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. Excellent book by the way, I highly recommend it for anyone who likes both 19th century literature and fantasy heavily steeped in folklore. Ravens play a big part in that book, and so it’s gotten me thinking about them, both in general as well as how I’ve used them in my own writing.
Previous: Cats and Contemplation
Holly grinned and sipped her tea. She sat at their little kitchen table at home, seated across a squirrel twice her size.
“It’s all rubbish, you know,” she said. “Gathering acorns for winter is one of the world’s greatest hoaxes. Everyone knows that summer is eternal, and that winter is just a clouding of the mind.”
The squirrel chittered and nodded, then buttered a piece of bread.
Previous: Milled Messages, Part Two
They made it back to Sarnum the afternoon of the following day. They had all slept fitfully in the carriage, and everyone was exhausted. They didn’t return to the Backwards Buck, though. Hawthorn directed them to a different inn—one that, he claimed, knew how to properly feed its guests.
The inn didn’t look like much from the outside—a narrow grey stone building wedged between two others like a spindly child trapped on a sofa between her two great aunts. A brass placard near the walnut door displayed the inn’s name of “Sensi’s Contemplation.”
Previous: Milled Messages, Part One
“Time for what?” Hemlock asked.
Hazel stared at the paper as a cold veil of realization settled over her. “It’s time to meet.”
“My father,” she whispered.
“How do you know?”