Suspended in the air as though she were floating in a waterless ocean, Gwyn laughed with delight as all the strange and wonderful objects in Lyra’s world turned a bright shade of violet before settling into various hues of much purpleness.
A clock that was half cat grinned at her from the mantle of a fireplace that had perched itself on a coatrack. A drop of purple fell to the ground and bled lilacs and violets, orchids and posies until there was a thick blanket of them so far as the eye could see.
Purple lanterns blinked into existence as they strung themselves along the silver elms encircling them. Gwyn smiled as dolls dressed in fancy purple gowns flew up to the lanterns and held a tea party while a cloud of pixies danced about them.
“It’s lovely,” she sighed, wishing she could keep the warm, open feeling in her chest forever.
A flock of violet birds flew past her, their bright, feathery bodies nearly brushing against her upturned face. They sang of friends and sunshine. Of hope and dreams and small purple flowers hidden beneath moss covered stones.
Butterflies danced below them, dipping down to kiss the tips of the flower petals. Their lavender wings fluttering against the warm glow of the sunshine that dripped down from the sky like melted honey.
“I hoped you would like it,” Lyra said, her face sparkling. She reached up and pulled a ribbon from her hair. “I wasn’t sure at first, but I do rather like the effect.” She dropped the ribbon, and it fell to the ground, leaving behind a pale gold road.
The moment it flattened out, they descended as though someone had tugged on a string attached to their ankles. Gwendolyn put her hands out for balance as she landed with a light bump. Gravity was a fair-weather friend in Lyra’s world, and it always paid to be careful.
“Now,” Lyra said, her expression severe, “about that new law. Off with them!” She swept her hands out and waved them at the wrist, her lips puckered in a prissy expression.
Feeling exhilarated and shy all at once, Gwyn tugged at her right glove, and then her left. The gloves slipped off easily, and she stuffed them into the pocket of her apron.
Gwyn spread her fingers out, reveling in her newfound freedom. The air was soft as silk and had a marmelade-like quality to it. The fizzling in her stomach expanded and shot into her fingers, her palms, warming them.
“Yes. I . . . I think so,” she said faintly. Her head had gone all funny, and she felt as though gravity had released everything from her neck up to do as it wished.
“Good, because I’d prefer it if you didn’t set my hearth-place on fire.” Lyra’s eyes were still dancing with laughter, but her tone brooked no nonsense. As if to drive her point home, her gaze flitted to Gwyn’s hands, then away.
“Wha—” Gwyn stared at her hands, uncomprehending. Golden stars flew away from her fingertips like tiny fireworks. She jerked her arms back, alarmed at the sparks that still fountained out.
“It’s . . . I’m not . . . burning . . .” Her brain tangled around the impossibility of what was happening.
Lyra shook her head, looking unaccountably pleased. “Of course you’re not.”
“But I’m on fire.” But not fire, exactly. Not unless fire glittered gold and fell like stars.
Lyra shook her head again, laughing. “You’re not on fire either. You’re on magic!”
. . . TO BE CONTINUED . . .
© 2015 by Danyelle Leafty. All rights reserved.
There is nothing quite like being on magic–provided it’s the good stuff and you have a well and worthy mentor around in case you turn yourself into a teacup. :p
Join me next Tuesday to see how Gwyn manages being set on magic and her newfound, albeit temporary freedom.
If this is your first time visiting, check out the first installment of this episode. Feel free to gather round the hearth and read the other stories that are going on too. The more the merrier!
If you like, feel free to join me tomorrow as we follow the adventures of a certain Queen of the Nearly Dead Fae in training. 🙂