Page 156 of Lana Pecherczyk
“I give my permission,” Blake babbled, eager to defuse the hostility. “We can’t do the feather casting without it, right?”
River’s expression darkened, but he nodded and released his grip and eased back. His hand found Blake’s and squeezed once, letting her know he remained coiled to strike.
“A feather tracing reading reveals what is already known but unseen.” The Donna dipped her fingers into thick, black paste.
Cold fingertips touched the top of Blake’s lips and painted downward over her chin. The substance tasted bitter and earthy, like ashes and cloves with an undertone she couldn’t name. It numbed her skin instantly. Warmth coursed through her veins.
“Your ancestors speak through your feathers.” The Donna reached for a small pouch hanging from her neck. “The past whispers to the present.” She untied the pouch and pourediridescent black feathers onto her palm. “Since you have no feathers, the magpie collects what others discard.”
“Pull out those which call to you.” She offered Blake the feathers. “Then scatter them on the stone.”
This must be like a tarot reading,Blake thought. The association calmed her nerves. She hovered her hand over the feathers, but nothing called to her. Trying not to feel disappointed, she randomly selected a few and scattered them onto a flat circular stone between them.
A gust of wind hit Blake’s face as if the feathers had displaced a boulder’s worth of air.
“What do you see, child of the old world?” The Donna’s raspy voice sounded distant, as if speaking from across a void.
Blake’s vision blurred at the edges, the caravan’s interior stretching and contracting. The familiar scent of eucalyptus oil drifted across her senses. It reminded her of her dad’s workshop back in Perth, her childhood home.
The scent intensified as the caravan melted around her and morphed into the workshop’s wood-paneled room. Her dad’s hammer was pressed against her palm, worn smooth from years of use. Broken furniture waited to be restored on the cluttered workbench. The radio played golden oldies in the corner, and her father hummed off-key from somewhere. A warbling, musical sound drew her attention to the window. Outside, Scarface, her old magpie friend, hopped about on the grass, hunting for worms.
She remembered this day. She’d been thirteen, taking the hammer to wood too recklessly, splintering a join, ruining the plank.
“She’ll be right, Bloss.”Her father’s voice whispered from her memories. She felt his large, callused hand on her shoulder, smelled eucalyptus, sweat, and cedar shavings.“The break will make it stronger, you’ll see.”
“Dad?” She reached into empty air.
“The feathers.” The Donna’s voice cut through the vision. “Tell me what you see.”
“Dad, it’s me.” Blake blinked hard, trying to focus, desperate to hold onto her father’s presence.
“The feathers, girl. Look at the feathers.”
Blake wrenched her gaze downward. Scattered feathers swirled like a kaleidoscope.
“Colors,” she said. “Light. Patterns that move.”
“Good. What else?”
Blake leaned closer, drawn by something beyond rational explanation. The feathers distinguished themselves, moved, and rearranged.
“The feathers form a spiral. Three parts connecting.”
“And what else?”
“A wing.” Blake traced the air above one formation. “But broken. Stars, trees, and a song—also broken. But there—” Her finger drifted to another cluster. “A shadow. Something dark is moving between the feathers and stealing them.” Rising terror built, racing her heart. “It’s not part of them, but hunting them.”
“Hm,” the Donna mused. “Something with borrowed feet and no heartbeat.”
“This is supposed to be about Blake’s mana.” River’s hand found hers again and squeezed hard.
“The enemy stands among friends.” The Donna gestured to two bloody feathers joining to form a V, splitting apart the three. “What blinds the Guardian is not darkness, but his own wings.”
River’s breath hitched, his face draining of color. “That’s enough.”
The feathers shifted again, and for an instant, in the glossy surface, Blake saw her father’s weathered hands holding the broken wooden plank. The workshop dissolved around him, replaced by vast open skies. Her father stood beneath theireucalyptus tree, watching her with eyes full of pride and sorrow. He looked down at his hands. The hammer was gone, replaced by Scarface—motionless, lifeless.
“You can’t fix stupid.”His voice resonated through her mind as the dead bird fell from his fingers.
