Mist upon the Marsh: The Story of Nessa and Cassie by Mae Ronan

father, who would no doubt call all the elder occupants of the house to her quarters, to join them in the activity of looking upon her, and sharing in their mystification.
    And yet, the cure came as suddenly as had the affliction. In the final minutes left to her before Dechtire’s arrival, she felt her muscles expand and extend with no order from herself, and looked down to see her own body, free of any and all traces of fur.
    She rose quickly, and dressed herself from the pile of fallen clothes by the window. Then she laid herself down upon the bed, feeling indescribably worn and drained, and incapable of any sort of further movement at all. When finally came the sound of Dechtire’s fist upon the door, she nearly cried with the realisation that she had not undone the lock, and hurled herself across the room so as to admit her caller.
    After the door had been opened, she returned upon lame legs to the bed. There she threw herself down, and looked helplessly to Dechtire, unable to flee in evasion of her questions.
    Dechtire dropped down beside her. “And would you like to tell me what all of that was about?” she said testily.
    “I don’t know,” said Nessa.
    “You don’t know?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Well, that is simply unacceptable.”
    “I suppose that’s too bad.”
    “And I suppose that you would have me say nothing?”
    “I would.”
    Dechtire sighed. “And I suppose I shall comply.”
    “How agreeable of you.”
    Here, Dechtire narrowed her eyes; and Nessa was assured that her compliance contained no manner of friendship or goodwill. “I don’t mean to help you,” she said harshly. “If I meant to do that, then I should go this instant to your parents. I mean only, Nessa, to remedy the terrible effect that you have been having upon this house. Do you not know that this is a happy time? There is happiness all about you – and you should be happy, damn you!”
    Nessa spread her hands in admission, but did not apologise.
    It seemed that Dechtire was growing quickly upset; and as her face contorted in a sort of rage, a thick scar above her eyebrow (granted her by Arog) twisted and furled like a pale snake.
    “For a month,” she said, “your shadow has hung over us all. You think we do not see it? Oh, we see it. I see it, your brother sees it; your mother sees it, your father sees it; poor Orin sees it! Why do you hurt him so?”
    Nessa turned her face away.
    Dechtire threw up her hands, and rose from the bed. “I’ll not bring another of your problems into this house,” she said. “Not now. Not after all you’ve done.”
    With a look of contempt that cut to shreds any part of Nessa’s heart which was not already ruined, Dechtire turned upon her heel, and fled from the room; leaving nothing behind her but the resounding echo of the slamming door.

Chapter XI:
    The S tar
     
    A fter Dechtire had gone, Nessa found that she no longer knew what to feel. Her sentiments, of course, had not changed at all; but she was beginning to think that perhaps it was all her own doing, all a disaster of her own creation. For, surely, it made much more sense that she was wrong, and all others were right; rather than to continue to believe that she was right, and all others were wrong.
    Unable to bear even a moment more of the lonely silence, she went to her window, and propped it open. She was on the second storey; and considering the size of the house, it was no small distance from the ground. Yet she propelled herself out of the window, and with near unmatched agility, scaled down the side of the house.
    She had not, however, left unprepared. There was the ongoing formulation of a thin sort of plot, held lightly inside her mind; and before she dropped out of the window, she readied herself a small bag, which contained a set of clothes, a pair of shoes, and her Turin. She wore nothing, as she stood in the cool evening grass; but this time, she had no trouble at all commanding the changing of her shape, and