Page 11 of The Faerie Morgana
The creature stopped inches from her knees, dark eyes gleaming. Morgana waited, her lips a little apart, marveling at the sensation of something opening in her, some compulsion coming to life, a compulsion she had not known was there.
The owl blinked once, twice, before she began to spread her wings.
As the bird’s wings rose and stretched, Morgana mirrored the owl’s movement. She stretched her arms up and out. Her palms opened, and her fingers straightened. She came to her feet, rose to her tiptoes, and then, in a rush of energy and power, she lifted from the earth.
She looked down at herself, expecting to see dangling legs, a flowing robe, but her clothes lay below in an untidy pile. She wore feathers instead, brown and gray and warm. Her arms were wide wings with fringed tips, and her feet had become talons tucked close beneath her. Instinctively, her wings moved in slow, powerful beats. The owl flew ahead of her, and she followed, stunned by the sensation of inhabiting a body sodifferent from her own, thrilled with finding she could leave the ground behind. Her wings flapped until she was high above the lake, and then they were still as she glided in the wake of her guide, soaring above the trees, carving a great circle over the water.
She should be frightened. She might fall. She might not be able to regain her own shape. She might get lost and never find her way back to the Isle of Apples. She accepted all these possibilities without caring. None of it seemed to matter in the face of this exhilarating feeling.
She followed her companion, turning when she did, flying higher when she did, swooping to brush the treetops with the soft feathers of her belly when she led her there.
They flew for sheer pleasure, with no goal, no destination, not even, though her ears picked up the rustle and squeak of some small creature, searching for prey. The sky was brightening with the first light of dawn when, at last, she began to tire.
Her companion, as if she knew, led her back to the beach where she had found her. She glided to the ground, and Morgana followed, landing lightly, easily, her talons digging into the damp sand as she settled.
Her body began to feel heavy again. Her feet were not neat little talons but bigger appendages, with long toes and tender soles. Her arms lost their feathers, her breast its downy roundness. The weight of her increased until, without looking, she knew she had resumed her human shape. The owl was gone. The air chilled her bare skin, and she reached down to the mound of her discarded clothes.
She slipped into her chemise, then shook out her crumpled robe. As she pulled it over her head, she saw Braithe staring at her from the path through the trees, her eyes brimming with tears.
Braithe gaped at the owl-become-Morgana, not aware she was crying until she tasted the salt of her tears. She tugged at the roots of her hair, thinking she must be dreaming, that she needed to wake up. She tried to speak, but her tongue wouldn’t respond.
Morgana spread her arms as if to sayHere I am, but she didn’t speak, either. For long moments they gazed at each other, until finally Braithe managed to close her mouth, to moisten her tongue, and to croak, “What were you doing?”
“Flying.” Morgana lowered her arms and smoothed the skirts of her robe. “I was flying.” She spoke casually, but Braithe caught the undertone of amazement in her voice.
Three brown feathers fell to the ground, and Braithe hurried to pick them up. She held them in her palm and looked into Morgana’s face. “You were— I saw—”
“Yes,” Morgana said. “Yes.” Her eyes flashed gold.
“An owl,” Braithe whispered.
“An owl,” Morgana repeated. “I was an owl.” She passed her hands over her face, over her body, as if getting to know them once again. “But why are you weeping?”
Braithe held out her hand with the three feathers lying weightless in the center. Her voice trembled with the import ofwhat she had witnessed. “Everyone knows only the fae can shift their shape!”
“Come now, my little brat. Everyone is wrong,” Morgana said, lightly, as if it didn’t matter at all. “It would not be the first time.”
Braithe’s voice deserted her. It did matter, and it terrified her. The fae were evil. Dangerous. They lied, and stole, and people had good reason to hate them. If anyone else had seen Morgana…
Morgana seized her hand, and the feathers drifted to the ground. “It was like a dream,” she said.
“If you were dreaming, then so was I,” Braithe said, gripping Morgana’s long fingers in her shorter ones. She steadied at the contact, and the fog of shock began to clear from her mind.
“I have never known a shapeshifter,” Morgana said.
Braithe choked, full of alarm at what it meant, “But, Morgana—could you be fae?”
“No. My mother was merely human, the wife of a king. This is some—some magic I don’t yet—” Morgana stumbled and clutched Braithe’s hand more tightly. “Oh. I am so tired. My legs—I am not sure I can walk.”
“What’s the matter?” Braithe’s heart thudded with a new anxiety. “Are you ill?”
“I think I must be, Braithe. So weak…”
Braithe set her fears aside and put her shoulder under Morgana’s arm. Together they took a couple of halting steps. “I will help you to your bed.”
Morgana didn’t answer but leaned heavily on Braithe’sshoulder. Braithe put an arm around her narrow waist and did her best to share her weight.
It was awkward, assisting her to climb up from the beach, then to make slow progress through the garden. The eastern horizon turned rosy as they struggled. Morgana stumbled once, twice, a third time as they hobbled toward the dormitory, and Braithe, so much shorter, found it hard work to keep Morgana on her feet.
