Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1) Read Free Page A

a dream, that the book was not full of words, but
rather illustrations . Later he would squint, trying to recall the
details of the pictures, of the images that had so consumed his mind, blocking
out all else. From the moment he opened the book, Spencer was lost to the world
around him, adrift in a sea of images, fingers glancing over the page as if he
sought to draw himself into it and become one with the tome. Daphne watched him
unblinkingly, ignoring the accusatory gaze of her sister. When it was clear
that he would not be able to extricate himself from the enchantments of the book,
the two girls pressed past him with soft, guilty giggles, vanishing into the
darkness of the hall, the only sign of their presence the sound of footsteps on
the stairs.
    Then there was another presence, this one not
so much in the room as part of it. It seemed to skirt around the edges of the
air, as though reluctant to engage directly with the space around Spencer.
There was a soft sound, like a lady clearing her throat, and then a whisper
that might have been a person sighing or might have been the swish of a sleeve
through the air. It seemed to hesitate, to duck shyly out into the hall and
then, on second thought, peek back into the room once more, taking in Spencer’s
still figure with wide and invisible eyes. After drinking its fill of his
image, it did not leave, but rather just faded .
    And still Spencer sat by the fire, hunched
over the book in his lap, his gaze riveted by images that seemed to ripple and
shift sinuously beneath his eyes.  
    ***
    The
flame was being difficult. Thunder crashed outside the walls of the castle as
Melisande lit the torch anew. She was in her mistress’s study, a dimly lit room
decorated with thick furs and dark velvet. The desk and cabinets were carved of
ebony, and the tall paintings that adorned the high walls were shaded in rich
tones of red, purple, gold and black. It wasn’t a cheery room, but they were
lucky to have windows. Most people in the castle relied on candles and torches,
but for the Court Witch natural light was a necessity. Today the view from the
prized windows was decidedly dismal. Though it was just past noon the sky looked
like night, and rain spat against the glass as if the heavens held a grudge.
Melisande had not seen the sun since it first rose that morning.
    From the
chamber next door she could hear the agitated tones of the Royal Librarian as
he argued with Felunhala, the Court Witch and Melisande’s mistress. Felunhala’s
voice, when it was audible, was slow, soothing, and carried the faintest
undercurrent of annoyance. She successfully hid her temper from most people,
but Melisande had seen the witch’s naked rage often enough to know when her
mistress was feigning calm.
    Slowly,
with the utmost gentleness, Melisande cupped her hands before the torch, and
tenderly, like a mother beckoning to a child, tried to coax the flame into her
hands. It wobbled a little, unsteady on the torch, and then slowly, like a drop
of water winding circuitously down glass, it began to slide towards her. She
could feel the heat on her fingertips but she willed it not to harm her and it
capitulated to her command. The nest of flames settled easily in the palms of
her hands, just barely warming them, crackling and feeding on no fuel but her
force of will.
    This was
when most beginners panicked, fearful at the sight of flames on their bare skin
even though they felt no pain. Once they panicked, loss of concentration was
inevitable, and then the flame would begin to burn them. But Melisande was not
a beginner, and her difficulties were not the usual first-time tribulations.
The flame did not burn her and sustaining it was easy, almost too easy. But
then it began to grow. The flames reached higher and higher, until they were
almost touching her chin, almost caressing her face, until she had to stretch
her arms farther out to give it space to grow and breathe. The fire leapt still
higher then,