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chapter twenty. bad seed
Fallon's hands enclosed around the pliant, rough spun ball of yarn, and though she couldn't see nor discern from light, tone or sound the nature of her surroundings, she knew in that instant that she must pull.
She stepped into her home; the little hunt not far from the sea. The fire crackled and the bed was empty, though the sheets were tousled, as if she had caught them moments after her mother's departure. She touched a hand to the mattress; still warm. Daylight breached the window.
The yarn in her hands was violet. Her trail cut across the floorboards, twisting around the harp and its wooden stool, past the herb drying rack to the closet in the corner. The closet yawned open to a dark beyond. Hesitating, she thought to look over her shoulder, but something forbade her, like the yarn itself were anchoring her forward.
Who are you?
She stepped into a mass of bodies. The air was electric with the moment before a storm. This was familiar. Her string weaved between feet, ran through the rivulets between cobblestone. Winding, winding. The crowd moved instinctively from her path. Ahead of her, she saw a hint of dark hair, a child darting out of sight, ten paces before her, five. Fallon's stomach panged. When was the last time she had eaten? How long had she been there, amongst the crowd, searching for the small tawny hare that scurried through the foliage, alight with the hunt?
Where am I? What all does this mean?
Bent at the neck, surprise took her as a figure stepped in her path and she collided headlong against the fold of their coat. Fallon seemed to step through him.
And into a corridor. It was dark and narrow. The smell of hay and must. Lamplight hopped across the sconces; the stone oily with incandescence. She slowed her pace, cautious. Footsteps routine, as though she had walked this path for hours upon hours. She was coming to the beginning of a cell. Whispers. Children's whispers. The yarn she coiled in her hands was dark with damp. Fallon turned to look. Her stomach began to sink. Yet her feet trudged on, past the youth huddled inside, marching on like the hours before dawn.
Am I all alone?
Fallon turned a corner, and into the night.
She caught sight of herself. Small and wretched. Crouched by the window, jimmying a lock. Her movements rubbed bone against skin. Fallon's pace slowed, in fact she froze, stuck staring at the frightful reflection. Her hand touched the skin of her brow, where the silvery scar had aged. On the girl, it was yet to appear.
