eye follows the movement and then flicks across to the spot the other winds up in next. it is the way a cat stares before an occurrence, like an earthquake might happen in that spot, and between those small seconds the witch is gone and then returns again.
a curiosity of things. it does not feel like her magick. not something taken root so deep in her body it is a holy thing. it does not feel like the devotional prayer she was raised to understand it. it feels like something she cannot quite name and the scent of a burning match crosses her nostrils immediately, then gone. the air lit aflame, she assumes, from the swift transference from place to place, in a way nothing but a creature can sense. she feels the smile drop from her lips. she keeps a trained eye on the magick that seems to be not magick at all.
it’s a moment of mirage as her image shudders and then begins to sweep itself away, an enormous beach of electric blue sand blowing into the wind and dissipating. and then beside the magician is materialized herself, yes there, her crouch on the fire escape every bit as animal as she. now the gaze drops, and skims her body with what might be interest. with what might be wondering. what might be curiosity.
she looks beside her where the young witch stays, peering down only by virtue of her strange perch.
the question says explain it to me.
she’s too nervous to smile, but there is still a little thrill at surprising someone, impressing them. yes, look at me, purrs her ego, look on in wonder. though she imagines this can’t be all that impressive to a god–– or whoever this person was.
henley certainly wouldn’t describe her magic as holy. no, hers felt much more like a friend, a plaything and companion. mischievous, like a lick of fire in the palm of her hand. the smell of burning is familiar to her; always in her nostrils when she vanishes, so that she hardly notices it anymore. her mother had said nonchalantly one day when she was young; “it was like you could turn invisible, you were always escaping your crib and turning up in a pile of toys.” her parents had chalked it up to exhaustion on their part, but her grandfather has always been playfully convinced that henley was special.
she always wondered whether or not he knew for certain that he was right.
henley’s eyebrows jump up when kitty vanishes and reappears in a flash of blue, not expecting such an exact parallel of one of her own abilities. it’s a much more beautiful transition, though, she notes–– visually fascinating and whimsical, but still somehow fearsome. it wouldn’t serve henley’s purposes, but she feels oddly envious of it for a moment, of the flourish and of the gravity. this is magic that doesn’t hide.
“yeah,” she says, “i guess so. i never know what to call it. there isn’t usually much reason to talk about it.” henley flexes her fingers, considers them for a moment. “i’ve had it since i was a child,” she says, not sure why she’s revealing so much. she knows she shouldn’t be this trusting, and yet...
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