Page 28 of As Many Souls as Stars
There was a light on in Cybil’s bedroom. As a crow, Miriam landed on the windowsill outside and peered within. Cybil was sitting at the mirror, combing her hair. It fell down to her elbows, and there was something suddenly violent about the vividness of its colour; it was bloody, woundlike, as if each stroke of the comb was slicing into flesh. She was singing as she worked at the tangles, terribly out of tune as always, some ballad about lovers and false promises. Her voice was muffled by the glass of the window. She was only half dressed, in a white chemise and scarlet kirtle. As she sang, her chemise sleeveslipped partly down her shoulder, and Miriam felt a hunger that was different in character to any she had felt before. It was softer this time, a whisper rather than a howl.
Miriam hopped closer to the glass. She wanted to be nearer to Cybil, tofeelthe light of her, rather than consume it. It was an unnerving impulse, largely alien to her, and she knew not how to resist it. The shadows that had gathered to form her feathers were reverent and afraid; they shivered as if they could somehow feel the winter cold.
Miriam melded into the darkness, slipped through the window, and stood, invisible, behind Cybil. The room smelt of the sweet oils she had applied to the comb. Miriam could see a droplet of the tincture beading at her hairline where she had swept the locks aside. It trailed downwards and then paused, caught in the short, downy hairs at the nape of her neck.
For a moment, Miriam watched. Then, a woman once more, she allowed her image to appear in the mirror’s reflection. It took a few moments before Cybil noticed her; as she went to put her comb down, her eyes met Miriam’s within the glass, and she shrieked.
‘Forgive me,’ Miriam said. ‘I frightened you.’
Cybil was clutching the comb with both hands as if it were a weapon. Trembling slightly, she dropped it into her lap. ‘Are you truly there?’ she asked. ‘Or merely an illusion?’
Miriam stepped forward and laid a hand on her bare shoulder. Her reflection did the same. Cybil could clearly feel the touch, because her head whipped around to look behind her, but Miriam was still invisible outside of the glass; there was nothing there for Cybil to see except darkness.
Her skin was warm and soft beneath Miriam’s hand. Miriam could feel Cybil trembling beneath her touch—muscles tensing as she prepared to bolt away—and so she released her, dropping her arm.
‘I came here to warn you,’ Miriam said.
‘… Warn me? You already told me that Martingale—’
‘He is coming now,’ Miriam said. ‘Tonight. To search the Hall for evidence.’
Cybil shook her head. ‘Now? But—I received no notice of the charges.’
‘Why would he forewarn a witch?’
Cybil laughed bitterly, throwing the comb aside. ‘Yes, why would he?’ she said, standing. She pulled up the sleeve of her chemise so it covered her shoulder. ‘You had better not be deceiving me.’
‘Why would I?’
‘To convince me to make a deal with you.’
‘Well, Idointend to do that,’ Miriam admitted, ‘but no need for deceit, not when Martingale and his men are so near. Wait, if you wish, until they arrive; we can negotiate then.’
Cybil gave her a long, searching look, brown eyes flickering in the dim light of the candles. She said nothing.
Miriam sighed. ‘You know as well as I do, my dear, that this house is teeming with evidence. Unless you intend to raze it to the ground…’
Cybil pushed past her and left the room. Miriam followed.
‘I suppose I cannot convince you to leave,’ Cybil said, as they walked.
‘No,’ Miriam replied.
Harding Hall was in disarray, furniture knocked over, paintings pulled from their hooks. Several of the windows were smashed, but Cybil seemed neither to care nor notice.
Miriam was impressed. ‘You have been taking this place apart.’
‘My father left much evidence,’ Cybil said.
‘You will not flee, then?’
‘I cannot.’
‘Why?’
‘My mother. I will not leave her. But’—she squared her shoulders—‘I will do all I can to save us. I will hide the grimoires and return to them once this matter with Martingale is finished.’
‘You believe he will show you mercy?’ Miriam asked her with derision, voice lilting. ‘That you can survive Oswyn’s accusations?’
