“we always keep a canary there in our apothecary—you never know when an apprentice’s pestle will press with a bit too much zeal. and there, behind the catsbeds and crowspens, that’s where we keep miss Catherine’s wheel—eh, for spinning, of course, that is.”
“indeed.” Whitlen sits high on his steed. he is barreled and burled and his lip has the look of having been long curled.
Salvonne keeps her head half-inclined. (she’s watching for scat, but if he thinks it deference, she’ll gladly leave it at that.) “i’m sure you’ll find all you need here at the inn. if there’s naught else, i’ll be on my—”
“wait.” Whitlen leers down at the girling. “there’s more time in the day. i’d have you walk before me some time longer.”
Salvonne feels her fingers curling, tucks them in her sleeves. she draws them out slow, holds up a handful of leaves and one of petals. Whitlen feels a tingling in his metals, and when she crushes together her elements he pulls back on the reins. “there’s n-no need to be hasty, chilt,” he stammers into her splintered smile while she whispers her small spells and nimble names.
she turns, and puffs her powder to the wind, watches it drift to the heights. Whitlen shakes his head, shows anger, starts to scold, then stops as he sees: the day’s gone night. he laughs asudden, and Salvonne looks up quick. “witches!” he howls. “always some new trick.”
Salvonne smirks, and bids the bishop good even. his smile fades as she goes. “that girl,” he mumbles to himself, “needs something new to believe in.”