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gehayi. And it's almost spent, this game between you and I.
Anathema rearranges the slips of paper on the tabletop, deft fingers fitting them beside one another and then switching them and putting them back. She squints at the result, but it’s nonsense. It’s always nonsense. Most of the slips she rescued from the fireplace don’t even have full words on them before the old ink is obscured by charred edges.
Newt leaves for work at eight in the morning, and he gets back at two fifty-five. Anathema always comes home by two thirty to make sure of it. After Newt returns, they spend about forty minutes telling each other the more interesting parts of their day, and by four o’clock they’ve decided what they’ll have for dinner. Today it’s Tuesday, which means they’ll be spontaneous and go out for Chinese food. (Anathema has always found it easy to be spontaneous, so long as she knows what she’s going to do in advance.)
Anathema shifts a scrap reading, oodr, above one that says, thyne fru. The longest complete phrase is inne appleesauese and she’s thought of all the morbid possibilities for that one a month ago. There had been construction on the roads, and Newt hadn’t gotten home until three ten.
Anathema glances over her shoulder to check the clock – just now three – and catches sight of someone unfamiliar in the hallway mirror. And Anathema just says, “I’ve been expecting you,” because Anathema is a witch, and that means she knows the easier words in Latin, and the proper use for mistletoe, and the name of the hag in the mirror. (Or, of one possibility for the hag in the mirror. Anathema’s young enough to only need one.)
Despair doesn’t smile, but she lifts her lip so that Anathema sees sharp teeth. Anathema watches as Despair bends down to whisper in her reflection’s ear; Anathema doesn’t hear anything, but the air suddenly tastes rancid.
Anathema looks at the table. She flips one of the strips over: oo instead of ile. When she turns back, Despair meets her gaze and runs a pudgy hand through the image of her hair. Anathema feels nothing that couldn’t be her imagination, but the gesture seems to her a lover’s caress. Despair brings her other hand up to Anathema’s face, and Anathema leans into the phantom touch. Pale, dirty fingers run across Anathema’s cheek, and then suddenly Despair twists her wrist so her barbed ring tears into Anathema’s skin.
Anathema flinches away, and when she looks back, her reflection is alone in the mirror, her cheek unmarred. And there’s no reason Anathema should feel anything but happy to be bereft of that sort of company.
It’s five past three, and Newt still isn’t home. Anathema rearranges the slips of paper on the tabletop, but they tell her nothing of what she should do.
gehayi. And it's almost spent, this game between you and I.Anathema rearranges the slips of paper on the tabletop, deft fingers fitting them beside one another and then switching them and putting them back. She squints at the result, but it’s nonsense. It’s always nonsense. Most of the slips she rescued from the fireplace don’t even have full words on them before the old ink is obscured by charred edges.
Newt leaves for work at eight in the morning, and he gets back at two fifty-five. Anathema always comes home by two thirty to make sure of it. After Newt returns, they spend about forty minutes telling each other the more interesting parts of their day, and by four o’clock they’ve decided what they’ll have for dinner. Today it’s Tuesday, which means they’ll be spontaneous and go out for Chinese food. (Anathema has always found it easy to be spontaneous, so long as she knows what she’s going to do in advance.)
Anathema shifts a scrap reading, oodr, above one that says, thyne fru. The longest complete phrase is inne appleesauese and she’s thought of all the morbid possibilities for that one a month ago. There had been construction on the roads, and Newt hadn’t gotten home until three ten.
Anathema glances over her shoulder to check the clock – just now three – and catches sight of someone unfamiliar in the hallway mirror. And Anathema just says, “I’ve been expecting you,” because Anathema is a witch, and that means she knows the easier words in Latin, and the proper use for mistletoe, and the name of the hag in the mirror. (Or, of one possibility for the hag in the mirror. Anathema’s young enough to only need one.)
Despair doesn’t smile, but she lifts her lip so that Anathema sees sharp teeth. Anathema watches as Despair bends down to whisper in her reflection’s ear; Anathema doesn’t hear anything, but the air suddenly tastes rancid.
Anathema looks at the table. She flips one of the strips over: oo instead of ile. When she turns back, Despair meets her gaze and runs a pudgy hand through the image of her hair. Anathema feels nothing that couldn’t be her imagination, but the gesture seems to her a lover’s caress. Despair brings her other hand up to Anathema’s face, and Anathema leans into the phantom touch. Pale, dirty fingers run across Anathema’s cheek, and then suddenly Despair twists her wrist so her barbed ring tears into Anathema’s skin.
Anathema flinches away, and when she looks back, her reflection is alone in the mirror, her cheek unmarred. And there’s no reason Anathema should feel anything but happy to be bereft of that sort of company.
It’s five past three, and Newt still isn’t home. Anathema rearranges the slips of paper on the tabletop, but they tell her nothing of what she should do.
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