Then she saw her there, sitting at the window with her hair let down like heavy, dark sorrow,
her pale skin like blue milk in the moonlight, and she was clutching something tightly in her hands
so that her knuckles were bone white with tension.

“Little Eislyn,” she said, but the girl at the window made no acknowledgement towards her.

“Eislyn.” Soirsha crossed the rich, carpeted floor that was as blue and dark as the sky,
for there were no lit candles or fyreflies in glass habitats to light her path.

As she drew close enough to reach out a hand and stroke Eislyn’s loose hair,
the black eyes of her daughter turned and banished her. “Don’t!”

Startled, Soirsha flicked her hand away like a scolded animal, tested it awkwardly
in the air by her clavicles, then dropped it to rest unemployed at her hip.

Silence dragged between them, thick and suffocating, until at last Eislyn broke her gaze and returned it to the window.
“You lied to me.”


“It was a ghost. He said he was my father.”