Post by Crow • ᚴᚱᚬᚴᛦ on May 3, 2024 10:58:46 GMT
(Following the events of The Inn at the Crossroads.)
Mirabel sits at one of the few small tables outside of the Mossy Mug. Her heavy coat and scarf have been left in winter, replaced now with a white corded jumper that she wears over a soft forest green turtleneck.
She sips on a tea, the steam curling around her nose, her attention entirely on the book she holds with her other hand.
A blush colours the boy’s pallid cheeks as he remembers her in that elegant dress the last time they met. He hides behind Forfeit as the two of them approach her, mumbling some barely audible greeting. Forfeit audibly tuts and pinches the cuff of the boy’s sleeve to draw him forward. “Step up, now,” they mutter, grinning wryly, and clearly amused by his shyness.
They clear their throat and speak forthrightly, in a warm tone. “Mirabel, may we join you?”
Her eyes flick up from the page briefly in a double take, her smile widening as she realises who is there. “Ah! Forfeit and Crow. What a lovely surprise.” She snaps the book shut, laying it on the table in front of her. “Yes, please! What brings you two out on a lovely day like today?”
At once, Forfeit gracefully sinks into a chair and they set their umbrella beside it. “Why, gossip, of course.” They flick their glance at the boy and the last chair, then turn back to Mirabel. “Spring suits you very well.” Their eyes sparkle with mirth, before widening mournfully. “Us, less so. We have encountered frost today. And snow. A blizzard, in fact.” Forfeit shivers involuntarily. “Fortunately, we took shelter in an inn. One you may be very interested to hear about…”
The boy slips into the empty chair beside Forfeit, gaze cast down on the table before him. “The Inn at the Crossroads, like the one in the stories,” he mutters.
Mirabel looks at both of them in turn, an eyebrow rising in interest. She sets her mug down carefully, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Ah, did you now? And how is the dear Innkeeper? Still well, I hope?”
Forfeit nods. “He was well. Although ‘still’ is a difficult way to frame it, Time being a fickle creature, and all that. But he seemed content, I suppose you could say. Although one could not say the same for the other guest we met during our visit…”
“Allegra,” the boy says, unintentionally ruining Forfeit’s dramatic tension. “When she was still a painter. Before she became an Acolyte.”
He pulls out a folded page from his pocket and lays it flat on the table.
“Oh.” Mirabel sits back, reaching for the paper.
Mirabel’s eyes flick over it, lingering on a section near the top before quickly reading through to the end. She takes a beat, glancing back to the top, before carefully handing it back. “And how was Allegra?”
“Young. Very young. Perhaps this was even before the root of her zealotry sunk in.” Forfeit steeples their fingers. “She seemed stuck. Uncertain of her choices. Though being at the Inn seemed to settle them, I suppose…”
Mirabel seems introspective, as though reminded of something from long ago. There are very few others mentioned in the prose, but as she hands it back to the boy, he notices her thumb, flecks of paint still lingering amongst the cuticle, is pressed next to the passage mentioning Allegra’s student.
“Did she?” she says. “The Inn has a way of helping those along their path. Though maybe that is just the brief respite the Innkeeper provides.”
As the boy takes the page back, he looks up and meets Mirabel’s eyes for the first time today. He tries to imagine what she was like as a teenager. Precocious — that was what Allegra said. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For what happened between you.”
She meets his eye, and smiles. "Thank you. But, it was long ago, and inevitable."
“Why ‘inevitable’…?”
“She may have mentioned, but in those days everyone was leaving. Nobody wanted to call it an exodus, but it was clear that the best days were behind us. Allegra found that…difficult to accept. Clearly she still does. But—” Mirabel looks from the boy, to Forfeit, and back. “Everyone left for a reason, and it was only a matter of time before she did too. It was only right that she try and hold on tight.”
The boy nods. “She said the last thing she painted then was…the one with the golden tree and the keys. But she painted more since then?”
“Oh yes. Once the visions started she had to get them out, and her art was her only escape.” Mirabel takes another sip, lost in thought. “It wasn’t enough for her to simply record what she saw, though. Eventually it reached the point where the visions were too heartbreaking to watch. She felt she needed to act.”
The boy grunts. “She acted tonight. Threatened the Innkeeper for Fate’s Heart.”
One of Mirabel’s eyebrows rises in surprise. “Did she now? She wasn’t successful, was she? I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the Innkeeper successfully threatened.”
“The Heart weren’t there. It’d been taken afore us.”
The eyebrow is joined with a growing, sly smile. “It was, was it? Good.”
His eyes widen. “You…?”
Mirabel holds his surprised look briefly, seriously, before breaking with a quiet laugh, her shoulders shaking with each light, high note. “No, no, I’m afraid it’s not meant for me. But if someone has taken it, that means someone will take it.”
The boy, with slight embarrassment, gives a sideways glance at Forfeit. They return the glance with a conspiratorial side-grin. “But these are legitimate questions, Crow. Just because the truth is one step beyond our grasp does not stop us reaching out for it!”
Forfeit watches the pair in thought, before turning again to Mirabel. “Know that we both made a case for her remaining at the Harbour. Or letting it end naturally. Or both. In other words, for walking a path other than the one she has chosen. And for a moment, she even seemed somewhat sympathetic to our words. But then, I suppose no matter which order we read the pages of this story, the ending is already written, and Time is irrevocable. Her path was always set, just as ours is too…”
“That is true,” the boy mumbles. “But it’s noble to try — no matter how hopeless — to change an ending. I think.”
“Oh yes, noble. That too!” Forfeit adds with a nod, visibly distracted by the delight of what chaos might have emerged from twisting Time.
Mirabel grins, relishing the contrasts between the two. “Oh yes. You always have to try. After all, Fate can be a bit…cryptic. Who knows what she really has in store.” She turns to Forfeit, her gaze softening. “And so I appreciate your efforts. Who knows. Maybe it was thanks to Fate that you spoke, and it will yet bear fruit? Her path might be written, but who is to say where it leads?”
“The one who has written it.” It seems, at first, like the boy being deadpan as usual, but there is a deeply contemplative look on his face.
“Perhaps.” Mirabel leans forward, placing a hand on his arm. “Does that worry you?”
He almost jumps out of his seat at the sudden touch. However, he calms himself, looks her in the eye, and pushes the page towards her again. He taps a finger on the paragraph in which the painter receives the visions.
“I want this.”
Mirabel draws her hand away and looks down, before returning her gaze to him. “Ah. You wish to read ahead, too? That’s quite an important gift to receive.”
“Yes.” The briskness of his answer is immediately overshadowed by the uncertainty in his eyes. “No? I…I dunno.”
“Hmm.” Mirabel studies the boy’s face, his hesitation. “And what stops you, Wanderer? Is it fear of what you might gain? Or fear of what you might lose?”
“Wh-What did you just call me?”
“Ah—” Mirabel leans back, her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I got ahead of myself. Forget I said anything.”
The boy once known as Víðar is frozen where he sits. The chatter of the Mug’s patrons around him melt away into a ringing in his ears. Mirabel lowers her hand, looking genuinely frustrated with herself. Not as though she spoke an untruth — more that she let on more than she intended.
He stares at her unblinking, unable to identify emotion overwhelming him right now. Is it fear? He certainly feels the urge to run away again.
But what has that ever achieved? What has resenting his Fate ever achieved? He rejects it, yet he has never made an effort to change it. So what does he want, truly?
Now he understands why he found the Inn. He’s been standing at a crossroads for a long time now.
He takes a deep breath and exhales it all. The hubbub of the street slowly returns to fill his surroundings. Then he asks, “Do you have the gift, Mirabel?”
Mirabel smiles; a sad, introspective moment to herself. “I am blessed with many gifts, but no — my sight is not as sharp as Allegra’s. Though, hers is not as sharp as it once was, either, away from the Harbour. The stories can’t whisper their endings to her, up here.”
She has no birds to bring the whispers to her.
He nods to Mirabel’s answer. “But you can tell me what I must do to gain it.”
She nods in response. “Yes, I can. I presume the path of devotion is not for you? Melody doesn’t know the rites, regardless. You’ll need to go deeper, closer to the sea.”
“Closer to the sea… Down into an older Harbour…” Forfeit muses. Then their eyes narrow with mischievous interest as they peer at the boy. “Wanderer.”
Forfeit receives no response from the boy but a silent glare.
“Precisely,” Mirabel replies, smirking at the boy’s reaction. “But a word of warning — beware the owls.”
“The owls,” he echoes. “Been hauntin’ me for a while.”
“They have? They are attracted to change. High points in the story. If they’re haunting you, Crow…” Mirabel trails off, briefly lost amongst her thoughts. “Hmm, yes, then I wonder where your path will lead them.”
The boy shrinks back into his seat. “Hm. Aye. Right, I’ll, er…let you know. When I’m ready, that is. Yeah. Thanks.”
“Of course.” Mirabel smiles warmly at the boy, before turning to Forfeit. “Anything I can help you with? Dorian seemed to appreciate your visit, by the way. At least, he seemed to in the brief times he has returned to the Heart.”
It is not possible to count the number of emotions that cross Forfeit’s face in an instant — dark ones, fearful ones, proud ones — before the corner of their mouth curls, almost languidly, into a curious smile. “Just…given that he has left the Heart again, I trust he is well recovered?”
“He is improving, though I think it will take time. To be a Guardian is to be trusted, and much of his trust was placed with Allegra. It was one thing to turn against her up here,” Mirabel says, pointing lazily towards the other patrons of the Mug before turning her finger to point to the ground, “and another entirely to venture down where you had sworn you’d never tread. He feels the need to see all of what he broke his vows for.”
“I understand all too well the power of a vow,” Forfeit replies, and for a moment, a glamour flashes across their eyes, a wisp of fey energy that is quickly consumed by flame. “She still has a hold over him, even if it is only within his heart…” Forfeit tilts their head thoughtfully. “I can imagine even that may take much exploration before he has finally shaken her off… No matter the risk to himself…”
Then Forfeit straightens up with some sense of purpose. “Crow. I shall return to the Harbour soon. Perhaps when you approach the Sea.”
The boy nods and wonders privately why a man would devote himself to a place he has never seen and would never see. Maybe it’s something like religious fervour, with Allegra as the charismatic preacher of this congregation of “Collectors”. How did she recruit them — did she show them some fateful passages from the Harbour’s books or pontificate about her visions? And more importantly, what persuaded Dorian to leave?
Perhaps it’s something to ask Dorian later, he thinks.
As the two stand up to take their leave, thanking Mirabel for her time, the boy pauses to gaze curiously at the page in his hand. “Mirabel, which book was this’un from?”
“Hmm.” She tilts her head to the side, looking at it up and down. “I think you found a page from the lost book. The last book.” She looks to the boy and Forfeit, giving a small, sad smile. “Sometimes one does not like what they read, or how the story ends. The book was torn apart.”
“By…Allegra?”
Mirabel shrugs. “It was before my time. Likely it was some other disgruntled reader — there have been many over the ages.”
“Does the Collector’s Club have this lost book? Or what remains of it, I guess.”
“If I remember, it was cast out to sea. Whatever remains of it would have been left by the tide.”
The boy looks at the page once more, before offering it to Mirabel. “The Harbour should have it.”
She nods in thanks as she it from him. “I will see that it makes it back to the others. And if you find any more, I’m sure they will appreciate being reunited.”
“D’you know what it’s called, the book?”
“Written in the Stars.”
Written in the Stars. The boy’s lips twitch into a ghost of a smile at the gentle irony of the title — it is a most rare sight indeed.
“See you, Mirabel.”
Co-written with Forfeit and Alex as Mirabel
Mirabel sits at one of the few small tables outside of the Mossy Mug. Her heavy coat and scarf have been left in winter, replaced now with a white corded jumper that she wears over a soft forest green turtleneck.
She sips on a tea, the steam curling around her nose, her attention entirely on the book she holds with her other hand.
A blush colours the boy’s pallid cheeks as he remembers her in that elegant dress the last time they met. He hides behind Forfeit as the two of them approach her, mumbling some barely audible greeting. Forfeit audibly tuts and pinches the cuff of the boy’s sleeve to draw him forward. “Step up, now,” they mutter, grinning wryly, and clearly amused by his shyness.
They clear their throat and speak forthrightly, in a warm tone. “Mirabel, may we join you?”
Her eyes flick up from the page briefly in a double take, her smile widening as she realises who is there. “Ah! Forfeit and Crow. What a lovely surprise.” She snaps the book shut, laying it on the table in front of her. “Yes, please! What brings you two out on a lovely day like today?”
At once, Forfeit gracefully sinks into a chair and they set their umbrella beside it. “Why, gossip, of course.” They flick their glance at the boy and the last chair, then turn back to Mirabel. “Spring suits you very well.” Their eyes sparkle with mirth, before widening mournfully. “Us, less so. We have encountered frost today. And snow. A blizzard, in fact.” Forfeit shivers involuntarily. “Fortunately, we took shelter in an inn. One you may be very interested to hear about…”
The boy slips into the empty chair beside Forfeit, gaze cast down on the table before him. “The Inn at the Crossroads, like the one in the stories,” he mutters.
Mirabel looks at both of them in turn, an eyebrow rising in interest. She sets her mug down carefully, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Ah, did you now? And how is the dear Innkeeper? Still well, I hope?”
Forfeit nods. “He was well. Although ‘still’ is a difficult way to frame it, Time being a fickle creature, and all that. But he seemed content, I suppose you could say. Although one could not say the same for the other guest we met during our visit…”
“Allegra,” the boy says, unintentionally ruining Forfeit’s dramatic tension. “When she was still a painter. Before she became an Acolyte.”
He pulls out a folded page from his pocket and lays it flat on the table.
“Oh.” Mirabel sits back, reaching for the paper.
Once in a long while an acolyte chooses to give up something other than their voice as they take their vows. Such acolytes are rare. One will not remember the last, nor will they serve long enough to meet the next.
The painter has lost her way.
She thinks that choosing this path will bring her closer to this place she once loved, this place that Time has changed as Time changes all things.
The painter makes her decision without telling anyone. Only her single student notices her absence but thinks little of it having learned long ago that sometimes people disappear and sometimes they return and other times they do not.
The painter spends her time of isolation categorizing losses and regrets trying to determine if there was ever anything she could have done to prevent any of them. She thinks if she has an idea for a new painting at any point during her time locked away she will refuse this path and return to her paints and let the bees find someone else to serve them.
But there are no new ideas. Only old ones, turned over and over again in her mind.
When the door opens long before the painter expects it to she follows without hesitation.
The acolyte and the painter walk down empty halls toward an unmarked door. Only a single cat notices them in this moment and though the cat recognizes this mistake for what it is he does not interfere. It is not the way of cats to interfere with Fate.
The painter expects to give both eyes but only one is taken.
One will be more than enough.
As the images flood the painter's sight, as she is bombarded by so many pictures unfolding in such detail that she cannot separate one from the other, cannot dream of capturing even fractions of them in oils on canvas even as her fingers itch for her brushes, she realizes this path was not meant for her.
But it is too late now to choose another.
The painter has lost her way.
She thinks that choosing this path will bring her closer to this place she once loved, this place that Time has changed as Time changes all things.
The painter makes her decision without telling anyone. Only her single student notices her absence but thinks little of it having learned long ago that sometimes people disappear and sometimes they return and other times they do not.
The painter spends her time of isolation categorizing losses and regrets trying to determine if there was ever anything she could have done to prevent any of them. She thinks if she has an idea for a new painting at any point during her time locked away she will refuse this path and return to her paints and let the bees find someone else to serve them.
But there are no new ideas. Only old ones, turned over and over again in her mind.
When the door opens long before the painter expects it to she follows without hesitation.
The acolyte and the painter walk down empty halls toward an unmarked door. Only a single cat notices them in this moment and though the cat recognizes this mistake for what it is he does not interfere. It is not the way of cats to interfere with Fate.
The painter expects to give both eyes but only one is taken.
One will be more than enough.
As the images flood the painter's sight, as she is bombarded by so many pictures unfolding in such detail that she cannot separate one from the other, cannot dream of capturing even fractions of them in oils on canvas even as her fingers itch for her brushes, she realizes this path was not meant for her.
But it is too late now to choose another.
Mirabel’s eyes flick over it, lingering on a section near the top before quickly reading through to the end. She takes a beat, glancing back to the top, before carefully handing it back. “And how was Allegra?”
“Young. Very young. Perhaps this was even before the root of her zealotry sunk in.” Forfeit steeples their fingers. “She seemed stuck. Uncertain of her choices. Though being at the Inn seemed to settle them, I suppose…”
Mirabel seems introspective, as though reminded of something from long ago. There are very few others mentioned in the prose, but as she hands it back to the boy, he notices her thumb, flecks of paint still lingering amongst the cuticle, is pressed next to the passage mentioning Allegra’s student.
“Did she?” she says. “The Inn has a way of helping those along their path. Though maybe that is just the brief respite the Innkeeper provides.”
As the boy takes the page back, he looks up and meets Mirabel’s eyes for the first time today. He tries to imagine what she was like as a teenager. Precocious — that was what Allegra said. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For what happened between you.”
She meets his eye, and smiles. "Thank you. But, it was long ago, and inevitable."
“Why ‘inevitable’…?”
“She may have mentioned, but in those days everyone was leaving. Nobody wanted to call it an exodus, but it was clear that the best days were behind us. Allegra found that…difficult to accept. Clearly she still does. But—” Mirabel looks from the boy, to Forfeit, and back. “Everyone left for a reason, and it was only a matter of time before she did too. It was only right that she try and hold on tight.”
The boy nods. “She said the last thing she painted then was…the one with the golden tree and the keys. But she painted more since then?”
“Oh yes. Once the visions started she had to get them out, and her art was her only escape.” Mirabel takes another sip, lost in thought. “It wasn’t enough for her to simply record what she saw, though. Eventually it reached the point where the visions were too heartbreaking to watch. She felt she needed to act.”
The boy grunts. “She acted tonight. Threatened the Innkeeper for Fate’s Heart.”
One of Mirabel’s eyebrows rises in surprise. “Did she now? She wasn’t successful, was she? I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the Innkeeper successfully threatened.”
“The Heart weren’t there. It’d been taken afore us.”
The eyebrow is joined with a growing, sly smile. “It was, was it? Good.”
His eyes widen. “You…?”
Mirabel holds his surprised look briefly, seriously, before breaking with a quiet laugh, her shoulders shaking with each light, high note. “No, no, I’m afraid it’s not meant for me. But if someone has taken it, that means someone will take it.”
The boy, with slight embarrassment, gives a sideways glance at Forfeit. They return the glance with a conspiratorial side-grin. “But these are legitimate questions, Crow. Just because the truth is one step beyond our grasp does not stop us reaching out for it!”
Forfeit watches the pair in thought, before turning again to Mirabel. “Know that we both made a case for her remaining at the Harbour. Or letting it end naturally. Or both. In other words, for walking a path other than the one she has chosen. And for a moment, she even seemed somewhat sympathetic to our words. But then, I suppose no matter which order we read the pages of this story, the ending is already written, and Time is irrevocable. Her path was always set, just as ours is too…”
“That is true,” the boy mumbles. “But it’s noble to try — no matter how hopeless — to change an ending. I think.”
“Oh yes, noble. That too!” Forfeit adds with a nod, visibly distracted by the delight of what chaos might have emerged from twisting Time.
Mirabel grins, relishing the contrasts between the two. “Oh yes. You always have to try. After all, Fate can be a bit…cryptic. Who knows what she really has in store.” She turns to Forfeit, her gaze softening. “And so I appreciate your efforts. Who knows. Maybe it was thanks to Fate that you spoke, and it will yet bear fruit? Her path might be written, but who is to say where it leads?”
“The one who has written it.” It seems, at first, like the boy being deadpan as usual, but there is a deeply contemplative look on his face.
“Perhaps.” Mirabel leans forward, placing a hand on his arm. “Does that worry you?”
He almost jumps out of his seat at the sudden touch. However, he calms himself, looks her in the eye, and pushes the page towards her again. He taps a finger on the paragraph in which the painter receives the visions.
“I want this.”
Mirabel draws her hand away and looks down, before returning her gaze to him. “Ah. You wish to read ahead, too? That’s quite an important gift to receive.”
“Yes.” The briskness of his answer is immediately overshadowed by the uncertainty in his eyes. “No? I…I dunno.”
“Hmm.” Mirabel studies the boy’s face, his hesitation. “And what stops you, Wanderer? Is it fear of what you might gain? Or fear of what you might lose?”
“Wh-What did you just call me?”
“Ah—” Mirabel leans back, her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I got ahead of myself. Forget I said anything.”
The boy once known as Víðar is frozen where he sits. The chatter of the Mug’s patrons around him melt away into a ringing in his ears. Mirabel lowers her hand, looking genuinely frustrated with herself. Not as though she spoke an untruth — more that she let on more than she intended.
He stares at her unblinking, unable to identify emotion overwhelming him right now. Is it fear? He certainly feels the urge to run away again.
But what has that ever achieved? What has resenting his Fate ever achieved? He rejects it, yet he has never made an effort to change it. So what does he want, truly?
Now he understands why he found the Inn. He’s been standing at a crossroads for a long time now.
He takes a deep breath and exhales it all. The hubbub of the street slowly returns to fill his surroundings. Then he asks, “Do you have the gift, Mirabel?”
Mirabel smiles; a sad, introspective moment to herself. “I am blessed with many gifts, but no — my sight is not as sharp as Allegra’s. Though, hers is not as sharp as it once was, either, away from the Harbour. The stories can’t whisper their endings to her, up here.”
She has no birds to bring the whispers to her.
He nods to Mirabel’s answer. “But you can tell me what I must do to gain it.”
She nods in response. “Yes, I can. I presume the path of devotion is not for you? Melody doesn’t know the rites, regardless. You’ll need to go deeper, closer to the sea.”
“Closer to the sea… Down into an older Harbour…” Forfeit muses. Then their eyes narrow with mischievous interest as they peer at the boy. “Wanderer.”
Forfeit receives no response from the boy but a silent glare.
“Precisely,” Mirabel replies, smirking at the boy’s reaction. “But a word of warning — beware the owls.”
“The owls,” he echoes. “Been hauntin’ me for a while.”
“They have? They are attracted to change. High points in the story. If they’re haunting you, Crow…” Mirabel trails off, briefly lost amongst her thoughts. “Hmm, yes, then I wonder where your path will lead them.”
The boy shrinks back into his seat. “Hm. Aye. Right, I’ll, er…let you know. When I’m ready, that is. Yeah. Thanks.”
“Of course.” Mirabel smiles warmly at the boy, before turning to Forfeit. “Anything I can help you with? Dorian seemed to appreciate your visit, by the way. At least, he seemed to in the brief times he has returned to the Heart.”
It is not possible to count the number of emotions that cross Forfeit’s face in an instant — dark ones, fearful ones, proud ones — before the corner of their mouth curls, almost languidly, into a curious smile. “Just…given that he has left the Heart again, I trust he is well recovered?”
“He is improving, though I think it will take time. To be a Guardian is to be trusted, and much of his trust was placed with Allegra. It was one thing to turn against her up here,” Mirabel says, pointing lazily towards the other patrons of the Mug before turning her finger to point to the ground, “and another entirely to venture down where you had sworn you’d never tread. He feels the need to see all of what he broke his vows for.”
“I understand all too well the power of a vow,” Forfeit replies, and for a moment, a glamour flashes across their eyes, a wisp of fey energy that is quickly consumed by flame. “She still has a hold over him, even if it is only within his heart…” Forfeit tilts their head thoughtfully. “I can imagine even that may take much exploration before he has finally shaken her off… No matter the risk to himself…”
Then Forfeit straightens up with some sense of purpose. “Crow. I shall return to the Harbour soon. Perhaps when you approach the Sea.”
The boy nods and wonders privately why a man would devote himself to a place he has never seen and would never see. Maybe it’s something like religious fervour, with Allegra as the charismatic preacher of this congregation of “Collectors”. How did she recruit them — did she show them some fateful passages from the Harbour’s books or pontificate about her visions? And more importantly, what persuaded Dorian to leave?
Perhaps it’s something to ask Dorian later, he thinks.
As the two stand up to take their leave, thanking Mirabel for her time, the boy pauses to gaze curiously at the page in his hand. “Mirabel, which book was this’un from?”
“Hmm.” She tilts her head to the side, looking at it up and down. “I think you found a page from the lost book. The last book.” She looks to the boy and Forfeit, giving a small, sad smile. “Sometimes one does not like what they read, or how the story ends. The book was torn apart.”
“By…Allegra?”
Mirabel shrugs. “It was before my time. Likely it was some other disgruntled reader — there have been many over the ages.”
“Does the Collector’s Club have this lost book? Or what remains of it, I guess.”
“If I remember, it was cast out to sea. Whatever remains of it would have been left by the tide.”
The boy looks at the page once more, before offering it to Mirabel. “The Harbour should have it.”
She nods in thanks as she it from him. “I will see that it makes it back to the others. And if you find any more, I’m sure they will appreciate being reunited.”
“D’you know what it’s called, the book?”
“Written in the Stars.”
Written in the Stars. The boy’s lips twitch into a ghost of a smile at the gentle irony of the title — it is a most rare sight indeed.
“See you, Mirabel.”
Co-written with Forfeit and Alex as Mirabel