Mirror Sight

“Oh, Cloudy,” she murmured, remembering. She stroked his head, but he turned away and walked down her body, tail twitching. He crouched at the foot of the bed and stared off into the darkness of the far corner. His tail thumped on the comforter.

Gray morning cast irregular shadows in the room and the curtains rustled listlessly. Karigan rose up on her elbows to see what the cat watched. At first she saw nothing, then she detected movement. Disregarding her aches and pains, she sat all the way up and stared. A filmy figure was seated in her chair facing away from her, seeming to write or draw on something on its lap. Faintly she could hear the scritching of its—his—pen.

She swung her legs off the bed and stood. She took halting steps forward and paused just behind chair and ghost. He was still filmy, translucent, but better defined this time. His garb appeared familiar, looked like . . . looked like the uniform of a Green Rider. Who? she wondered. Someone she’d known? She could not see his face from behind, so she slowly started to circle around him fearing that any sudden move would cause him to vanish. She glanced at his drawing.

It was a drawing of himself, from the same perspective she’d had of seeing him from behind. As he drew, his ghostly shape grew more solid, more defined, as if the act of drawing himself helped him materialize more fully. Faint green began to tint his uniform.

As Karigan circled him, his profile grew more familiar. She knelt before him, now able to look into his face that was so intent on the drawing, and she knew.

“Yates!” It came out as a throttled cry.

He paused his sketching, and without looking at her, raised his forefinger to his lips. And vanished.

A faint green afterglow wavered where he had sat, and then dissipated. Karigan knelt there hugging herself, fresh tears washing down her face, grief that she’d been unable to express before. She grieved for Yates, she grieved for all those who she’d known and were now dead. From the perspective of this time, all of them were gone.

The cat came to her with a questioning Prrrt? and then rubbed against her leg. It quieted her enough to hear the strains of a distressed whinny come through her open window.

“Oh, no!” She swiped tears from her face with her sleeve, feeling Raven’s urgency, his need, ringing through her. She ran from her room with neither her shawl nor slippers. She pelted down the corridor, one door opening in her wake. Mirriam called after her. Karigan ignored her and charged down the stairs, and then to the back of the house past bleary-eyed servants just beginning their day.

She threw open the back door and raced across the yard toward the stables, her healing leg hindering her not at all. Raven’s sharp whinnies called to her, and when she entered the stables, she found him rearing in the center aisle, only one cross-tie secured to his halter, and she had no doubt he’d rip it out of the wall, bolt and all, at any moment. Standing before him, with a carriage whip in her hand, was Arhys, a small figure in contrast to the huge stallion. Trapped beyond Raven, just out of range of deadly hooves, stood Luke and his stable boys still in night dress, unable to get around the horse to stop Arhys.

What did the girl think she was doing? Did she have no sense of the danger she placed herself in?

Arhys laid the whip back, preparing to lash Raven. “Stupid horse!” she cried.

Raven reared again, bellowing, hooves thrashing. He would kill Arhys.

“No!” Karigan cried, and she lunged forward and grabbed Arhys. The danger of the moment gave her the surge of strength she needed to heave the girl out of the way. Karigan, however, lost her footing and fell prone beneath descending hooves. She scrunched her eyes closed and gritted her teeth against the pummeling that could crush her.

And felt a whiffling against her ear instead. She rolled to her side and saw that by some miracle, or quick reflex and wit of Raven’s, that his front legs had not crushed her, but straddled her body instead. He nickered at her questioningly. She reached with a shaking hand to pat his nose.

“Bad horse!” a little girl’s voice cried.

Raven jerked his head up and snorted. Luke shouted. A quick glance revealed Arhys back up on her feet coming toward them with whip ready. Karigan hauled herself out from between Raven’s legs and intercepted the girl. She snatched the whip out of her hands and tossed it aside, then grabbed Arhys’ wrist.

“Lemme go!” the girl cried.

“Don’t. You. Ever. Go near that horse again. Do you hear me?” Anger made Karigan’s voice harsh.

“Lemme go!” Arhys started kicking her and screaming.

Karigan dragged her out of the stable, the girl wild in her hand, and a specially well-aimed kick brought Karigan to one knee. Arhys seized the opportunity to pull her hair and scratch at her face. It was almost as bad as fighting one of the tainted Sleepers in Blackveil.

“What’s going on here? Release the girl!”

Karigan looked up to see the professor, Mirriam, and half the household staff running across the yard.

“I hate her and her stupid horse!” Arhys screamed.

Before Karigan could retort, Arhys smacked her in the face and surprise made her release the girl. She felt blood trickle from her nose. She wiped it and smeared blood across her wrist. When she looked up, Arhys was folded in the professor’s arms, her angel’s face pressed against his chest, everyone staring at Karigan in condemnation.

“Miss Goodgrave!” Mirriam cried. “What were you doing to the child?”

Karigan looked to the professor, but even his gaze was accusing, his hold on Arhys protective. What did they see in the girl? She was nothing but a spoiled brat.