Falling Light (Game of Shadows #2)(49)

The light and dark energies connected inside of her and detonated. The power of the resulting blast knocked her . . . someplace.

She floated, light as thistledown, and collided with a handkerchief of bright orange energy, which startled a giggle out of it. It was a little wind spirit, like the lavender spirit that had helped her escape from the drones who had tried to kidnap her.

It darted out an open window, flapping and soaring in fits and spurts like a drunken butterfly. Looking around, Mary discovered that she stood at the top of the stairs that led to the loft.

She could see Astra cooking on the ground floor. She jumped, floated down the stairs and over to the counter, where Astra rolled out a thick layer of dough.

“What are you doing out of your body, miss?” Astra grunted without looking up. She took a knife and sliced the dough into thick strips. “I know you think you’ve learned a clever trick or two, but now is not the time to be wandering through the realms, not even here.”

I didn’t mean to do it, she protested. It was my dream. As Astra paused to look at her speculatively, realization dawned. She demanded, You gave me that dream, didn’t you? What did all those images mean?

Astra cackled, her black eyes bright. “I don’t have a clue. It wasn’t my dream, it was yours. I don’t know what images you saw.” She added in a casual tone of voice, “Want to tell me what they were?”

Mary didn’t take time to analyze her instinctive reaction. All she knew was that she didn’t want Astra near her chapel.

She said quickly, No, thanks.

“Suit yourself. Then you’ve got to be the one to figure out what it means.”

She hesitated. How could you give me the dream if you don’t know what it was?

“All I did was to nudge you in the right direction,” the old woman said. “You said that sometimes you don’t know yourself. You had somewhere inside of you that you needed to go, and some things that you needed to realize and remember. You would have gotten there on your own eventually—you were halfway there already. I just saved you some grief and time so that we could move on to other things.”

Oh. Thank you. The large steaming pot on the stove distracted Mary. She peered inside at the bubbling liquid, trying to determine the contents.

“It’s going to be chicken and dumplings,” Astra told her. “And you can have some when you get up.” She slapped a floury hand on the counter. “Now go back to bed!”

As Astra said the words, Mary felt a shove that sent her tumbling head over heels up the stairs. When she connected with her body, she fell again into darkness.

• • •

A FORMLESS TIME later, Mary opened her eyes.

She looked around, cataloguing the details of her environment. Pleasant cool air moved through the loft, carrying with it the rich, enticing smell of chicken stew. She rolled over and looked at the open window. As she remembered her collision with the bright orange handkerchief in her dream, she smiled.

There was no part of her body that ached, or was cold, cramped, overtired, bloody, dirty, wet, beaten or bruised. It was a miracle.

Her unruly hair still felt damp but not uncomfortably so. She had a whole wide double bed to roll around in. It would take a good week of regular sleep and nutrition for her to feel fully rested, but this new reality was miles better than what she had just experienced. She wiggled her toes and rotated her ankles, and luxuriated in the simple wonder of being physically comfortable, content to rest and think.

After a while, hunger and a resurgence of curiosity drove her out of bed. Someone had left a pile of clothing just outside her door. As she sorted through the items, she found her cleaned and dried nylon panties, a baggy purple T-shirt and a gray sweat suit.

She had lost her bra back at Michael’s cabin, but she was small enough that she could get away without wearing one. Grateful for the clean clothing, she shrugged into the T-shirt, sweatpants and underwear, slipped on her socks from early that morning and left her nightgown folded on her pillow. Then she went down the stairs.

No one else was in sight. She found a pot on the stove on low simmer, a small stack of spoons and bowls beside it and a note on the kitchen counter. Astra was outside doing chores, the stew was ready, iced tea and a salad waited in the refrigerator and fools were welcome to eat whenever they awakened.

Mary felt a small pang when she read the note. Her fingers smoothed the edges of the paper. She wondered where Michael was sleeping. Had he been tempted to crawl into bed with her, or was he glad for the chance to put some distance between them after that morning?

Earlier she had been too exhausted to care about anything but getting her body horizontal as fast as she could, so she hadn’t missed him when she’d collapsed in the loft.

She missed him now, though. They had fast learned to rely on each other during the trip north. Or at least she had learned to rely on him. Already it felt strange to be apart from the visceral comfort of his big, warm body.

She helped herself to a generous meal of chicken and dumplings, salad and tea. The stew was well seasoned, starchy and delicious, perfect comfort food for people who had suffered from stress and recent injury. She couldn’t resist a second bowlful. When she finally finished, she washed her dirty dishes.

Then, driven by motives she preferred not to dissect, she explored the ground floor.

The cabin was filled with a treasure trove of carved statues and masks, stone bowls, pottery, handwoven wall hangings, dried herbs and a variety of tools.