Of Sea and Sky: Part 8

            “You’re silent as stars,” Caspian said, coming up the cliff behind Lani on one evening when fall was very near. The sun clung to the sky, casting its desperate fingers over the water, over Lani, over Caspian.

            “I found it,” she answered, corralling her hair over one shoulder so that it would not whip him in the face when he came near. From within the fold of her voluminous robes, she withdrew a coarsely wrapped object.

            “You found what?”

            “The wish.”

            Caspian took it with fumbling hands, wondering why the feeling behind his sternum felt more like desperation than joy. He had to see it. And then he did. It was a piece of glass.

            “Something of sea and sky,” he murmured, smoothing fingers over it.

            “Made by lightning, smoothed by the ocean.”

            “How is it a wish?” He handed the shining glass back to her.

            “I’ll show you.” Her voice was very sad.

            Lani held up the mirror toward the waning sun, which glinted off the ocean-polished surface to catch the eye of the last of the summer trade boats. There was a series of flashes in return.

            “If I flash back, they’ll come for us.”

            Though she made a move to do just that, Caspian’s hands were in the way.

            “Don’t.” His heart was tapping enthusiastically against his chest, and when he looked at the boat, all he felt was sickly sweet dread.

            “Don’t?”

            “You said we’d wish for the same thing, in the end. All I want is to stay here. With you.”

            Though the muscles of her face wanted to stretch with contentment, Lani held them in check.

            “I’d go with you, if you went,” she clarified. Caspian shook his head, terrified now. Without thinking, desperate, Caspian’s hand darted out to take the glass and throw it into the sea. It gleamed like a falling star as it went.

The End

Everly's Walk: Part Eight

Now the townspeople whisper tales of curses to the tourists brave or strange enough to come by. They speak of Everly Carrigan, the best Carrigan by far, who fell for a Blythe-Cameron and then fell from her own walkway. It isn’t there anymore, that walkway, they say. It fell out in some storm, leaving poor old Alice trapped in that crumbling-away manor. Except that she had been a recluse anyway, probably knocked the bridge out herself.

They say that every Carrigan woman since Everly has met her death by falling from the Cliff. Araby never believed that, naturally. They warned her, the drunken captains and quiet scholarly types, that she should leave before her turn came. Not that they didn’t want a Carrigan about--most of them could hardly fathom how they’d function without Miss Araby and her lovely money--, but they’d rather have a removed last-Carrigan than a dead one. 

Araby laughed at them, the sound was white-feathered birds on the green sea breeze. Even if she did have wine red hair (far tamer than Everly’s) and a short temper, she’d never go jumping off a cliff. 

But then again, that was the summer before she met Augustus Crane.

The End

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