The Flame by Jean Johnson

Author:Jean Johnson [Johnson, Jean]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Berkley Sensation, NY
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Even after a few days, Danau was still amazed and bemused by the variety of images the enchanted paint on the walls could project. When she entered her suite, parting company from Koranen with a reassurance that she really was going to wash and change for their… date… the Aquamancer wasn't expecting the night sky that greeted her the moment she finished shutting the door.

All of the walls in the front parlor were spangled with constellations, and the wall to the left of the doorway leading to the bedchamber had hints of an impending moonrise. With the curtains closed against the afternoon sunlight—no doubt done so by a servant to magnify the effect of the paint—the stars glowed out of the walls, leaving strange, squared silhouettes wherever the furnishings were scattered around the room.

The effect was nice to look at, but difficult to navigate, particularly now that the door was shut, leaving her in near-total darkness. Two thin beams of indirect light dissected the darkness, cast by the slight gaps in the heavy curtains covering the windows. Groping beside her for the lightglobe, Danau hesitated as she noticed a small patch of darkness interrupting one of those floor-crossing lines. Ugh … I hope it's not one of those rat creatures. Rats, mice, and roaches are among the few things the shipwreck wardings don't rescue from drowning, and with good cause …

Finding the globe with her knuckles, she rapped it sharply, blinking against the strong white light it obediently cast. And saw several more dark lumps, as the spots cleared from her eyes. Several dark, fuzzy… blue green…

Danau took one unsteady step forward, her mind struggling to comprehend what her wide eyes swore they saw. Another step… a third, and she fell to her knees. Eyes prickling, she crawled the last little bit of distance between her and the nearest scrap. Her hand reached out, hovered over the piece, no bigger than a third of her palm, and very, very gently touched its curling, fraying edge.

It was… velvet. Deep blue green… velvet. Her… velvet.

Frost crept over the cloth, coating it with a different source of fuzz, a coldness deep enough to match the flush burning her face. It spread out from her kneeling body as fast as her pounding heart, until she couldn't tell where it ended and the blurriness of her tears began. The dress… her dress…

It hurt so much, she couldn't bear it.

Her hands threatened to freeze to her cheeks. She didn't know when she had covered her eyes, but Danau sniffed and tugged her palms free, flexing them to crack and brush away the broken bits of her tears. Scrubbing at her face, she sniffed again, breath misting as white as the room.

It's Chana. It has to be her. Or Reuen. Ghana—she overheard me telling Koranen about the dress. Rubbing at the tears threatening to freeze on her face, Danau pushed to her feet. There weren't many frozen lumps in the sitting room, maybe part of the upper bodice at most, but she didn't doubt the rest of the dress was equally shredded.

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