Page 77 of Awry
It’s a rough, basic sketch.It’s an … angel?
Pain streaking through my head at the effort of focusing through the emptiness, I force my gaze away, down to the neat line of seashells and stones and sea glass.I hover my fingers over each in turn, and they don’t tremble.No emptiness encases my hand.
Then I spot the tiny wooden box at the opposite corner of the windowsill.My name is carved across the top.The shaking starts again as I reach for it.I push through, flipping the lid up.Only the lid isn’t hinged, so I inadvertently throw it to the side.There’s a strung piece of jewelry in the box — a bracelet constructed from polished semiprecious stones?But when I force my arm through the pocket of emptiness that’s somehow trying to impede my reach, when I try to pick the bracelet up, I realize it’s broken.The rounded stones fly everywhere, and I …
I stupidly cry out.
Like I’ve lost something precious to me.
Even though it’s not mine.Is it?
Dropping the comforter, I scramble around, trying to collect the scattered bouncing rounds, tucking each within my palm.And in doing so, I somehow reclaim them for myself.The empty feeling eases, though it doesn’t disperse.I lay the broken bracelet back into the box, hoping I’ve found all the missing beads.
Only then do I notice the black velvet pouch also tucked within.
I pull the pouch out by one tiny drawstring.The velvet is cheap, but the black, rough-cut stone that spills out of it and into my palm is anything but.Obsidian?Or tourmaline?
I can feel the potential energy contained within the precious stone.
A protection spell, maybe?
Or a spent protection spell?
I flip it over, noting the tiny gold loop adhered to the back.A charm?For the broken bracelet?
I set the charm back in its pouch, then back in the box, and replace the lid.I run my fingers over my name carved into the wood — ZAYA.The woodwork isn’t exactly rudimentary, but this box definitely wasn’t made by an artisan.
A personal gift.
I have no idea why I know this, but the box, the folded notes in the jar, and the bracelet were given by three different people.
Given to me?
Three gifts I can’t remember.
Three people I don’t remember.
A collection of touchstones arrayed on my windowsill that I don’t remember.
I shove myself away from the window.Just a step or two back— and I can suddenly breathe again.I didn’t push through that odd emptiness, that weird void, at all.I just got used to it.
And I swear … I swear it was slowly suffocating me.
Distant movement out the window draws my attention.Cayley steps onto the front porch of the beach house and stretches her neck, then shoulders.
I should go down and check on the mage, Harlee.I haven’t given her any guidelines, haven’t even officially asked her to investigate, to look at everything she can.And I need her to prepare the bodies, either for cremation or to be returned to their families.
Yes, that’s actionable.
And actionable should be the opposite of this numbing emptiness, right?
I abandon the objects on the windowsill, including the collection of notes— even though they might actually serve to illuminate me.Because the idea that there’s a truth to be uncovered here disconcerts me enough that I desperately need to avoid it for a little longer.I cross to my built-in wardrobe and yank out underwear, socks, a tank top, jeans, and an oversized hand-knit cardigan.
All of it feels and smells as if it’s been recently laundered, not musty at all.Like the sheets on the bed.
The well-worn clothing fits only because I’ve lost too much weight.Each piece feels … wrong.As if I shouldn’t be wearing it.I have no idea who hand-knit the cardigan, with its antique brass buttons and soft, soft fabric — qiviut, maybe?But it looks like something I should remember.
Fuck, it’s just clothing.I need to stop reading into everything.I’m feeling fucked up because I’ve died twice in the last three weeks, taken on a literal universe of power, and claimed one of only seven intersection points in the world.
