Ghostlight (The Reflected City Book 1) by Rabia Gale (i can read with my eyes shut TXT) 📗

old lady did not see her. But how was she to converse with the person Trey had wanted her to meet with this eccentric peer in the same room?

The woman said, without taking her gaze off the burning logs, “How long will you hide your gift, child?” Her voice was deeper than expected, and slightly husky.

Arabella looked around the room involuntarily, as if someone else had snuck in without her knowledge. “A-are you addressing me, Madam?” she asked timidly. How small and thin her voice sounded.

The lady turned her head slightly towards Arabella. “Who else is in the room, child?” she asked with awful patience. Arabella squirmed in her seat, remembered with horror her inelegant posture, and instantly put her feet on the floor. Too hard, for her soles sank slightly into the thin carpet. The lady went on, “I may be ancient, but I am not, as yet, in the habit of talking to myself.”

A light shone in her eyes and the air in the chamber seemed to sharpen somehow, like a sword being unsheathed.

“I-I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Arabella, flushing and mortified. “I did not know I was supposed to meet you. Lord St. Ash didn’t say.” As he should’ve! He had sent her to meet this august personage—and this woman, whoever she was, was important and fairly crackling with power—with no preparation whatsoever.

“Ah, Trevelyan. That impossible boy, always testing the boundaries.” The lady shook her head. “But we are talking of you.”

“Could you—would you—return me to my body, ma’am?” Arabella leaned forward in her eagerness.

“I have not the power for it,” said the lady simply. “I came here to see if I could enable you to do so, on your own.” She looked levelly at Arabella. “You could do that, you know, if you freed your gift.”

Arabella said nothing, though her hands were clenched in the translucent material of her gown.

“You don’t deny it,” the lady mused. “Interesting.”

Arabella lifted her chin. “If you know that much, ma’am, then you must know that I cannot do as you say. You must know that the gift is”—her voice trembled—“a curse.”

“I know only that it is all knotted up with pain and fear.” The lady’s voice was at once gentle and inexorable, like soft snow falling and falling from a winter sky. “And that you could free it, if you wished.”

Arabella made a sudden, sharp gesture, as if to cut off her words. “I don’t wish it. What you call a gift has left nothing but a dark taint on the earth.” She strove to keep her voice from getting shrill.

The lady nodded once, slowly. “Perhaps it is too much to ask right now. After all that has happened.”

“It’s in the past,” said Arabella firmly. She added, in a smaller voice, “Does this mean you can’t help me?”

The lady frowned at the fire. “Your soul must remember again what it is like to dwell in your body. Perhaps I can assist you.” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “Memory… memory is a tricky thing, like a river that rushes fast in places, meanders in others. You never know when the undercurrent will take you and pull you under. And yet, I see a place you cannot reach. A dam, blocking the river, a reservoir of memory behind it.” Her brows drew together in fierce concentration.

Pressure built up in the room. Arabella held her breath. In the back of her mind, within dark recesses, impressions stirred, images flickered…

And then the feeling vanished. The memories plunged beneath the surface again. Arabella let out a soft sigh and looked expectantly at the lady.

Her mouth was set in a thin, pained line. Though she still held herself straight, she was diminished somehow, shrunken even. Under the powder, her face was grey.

“Oh, do not, madam!” Arabella sat up, alarmed. “Do not exert yourself so!” Guilt tore through her. How would she face Trey—or anyone—if something happened to this old lady on her behalf?

The woman’s hands clenched around the top of her walking stick. Her head was bowed. “Once,” she said, voice low and hoarse. “Once, this would’ve been a mere moment’s work for me, a mere weaving of some threads here and unraveling of others there.” She looked up and smiled without mirth at Arabella. “It is a painful thing to be old and weak.”

She rose heavily to her feet, leaning on the stick. Arabella scrambled up, feeling more gauche than ever.

Even at her age, the lady was taller than Arabella. The firelight flickered over her face, kindling a spark in her dark, heavy-lidded eyes.

The room seemed to waver, as if viewed through water. The stern old lady with her erect carriage and hooped skirts was gone. In her place stood a warrior in bronze helmet and rune-etched breastplate. The folds of her once-white robe, ragged at the bottom, stained with grime, fell to her sandaled feet. In her right hand, she carried a spear tipped with starlight; in her left, a buckler that gleamed silver like the moon. Her eyes were hidden pools, dark green with shadows.

It was autumn, and a fierce sun beat upon her neck, a chill wind scraped along her face. Her feet had turned to lead, the shaft of her spear bit into her callused hand. Sorrow crept greyly over her, one thought only ringing and ringing through the fog of emotion.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

Arabella jerked back, startled. She blinked, and both the image and the curious sensation of fitting into someone else’s skin disappeared.

The lady cocked her head and looked on with interest. “Curious,” she said. Before Arabella could respond, she reached out and brushed her fingers against Arabella’s cheek.

Arabella steeled herself, but the touch was warm and pleasant.

Not so for the lady. She dropped her hand quickly, an odd expression crossing her face. Arabella could not make it out at all—mingled astonishment, pity, and… awe?

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Something I must consider on my own first,” said the lady.