Mama Annistyn sprinkled dried snow bees into the broth, stirred the pot and wiped tears from her eyes.
A filthy stench washed the room. She retrieved a blade, glimmering gold-brushed silver, crystallized from beeswax and textured such as the frost pattern of the snow bee's wings. She now understood why saints kept them in cups outside of the gates, crushed in soot: to ward off something powerful and unwanted. Understood why the concoction from the herbalist – containing snow bees wings – paralysed the feral Kodiak even for an hour.
It was scorched in Mama Annistyn's mind, the memory. The letter from the boarding school that came. The announcement of a dark creature in their student body's midst. The accusation that the strange occurrences – ice-crusted students, snowed-in dorms, storms in the assembly hall – all of that had pinpointed back to her daughter.
Draining the last drips of the putrid broth from the blade, Mama Annistyn rose from the stool before the pot and laid it on the windowsill to dry in the cool wind. Once cold to the touch, she picked up the blade and strode to her daughter's bedroom. The door was no longer locked, for Kodiak had always found a way to thief the key under her nose.
Mama Annistyn pried the door open, then closed it behind her, silent as smoke.
The blade felt sure in her hands.
She raised it over Mitchska's heart.
YOU ARE READING
THE DREAMER'S LAMENT
Short StoryIn the hearts of dreamers, lament will always linger. Sadness can bloom into the brightest, lambent shades, like the rain giving way to the phantom of a rainbow, like the promise of hope. But sorrow may also wind down a darker, colder path. Our hear...
