Elva Rackthorn and the Tears of Azrael

Greenpeak, Part 2

Elva woke as they reached the steep, switchback climb at the end of their journey. Henri was kneeling up on the padded bench, his owl-like eyes close against the window to peer down at the vertiginous drops. Elva tried her best to avoid looking at the dizzying heights, but the nausea had already swarmed into her stomach.

At least when they crested the last ridge, the sight became more palatable. Poised before their languorous descent, they could see the entirety of the mountain-nestled vale and the Institute within: the myriad white buildings amidst the gleaming grass, the large, blue lake with clouds pinned in its still surface like butterflies behind glass, the pastel colors of patients and nurses moving placidly about the grounds.

Silas Rackthorn was perfectly composed as he and his children drew near the visitor center, exited the carriage on travel-stiff legs, and followed a smiling nurse through wide-windowed hallways. Henri, as usual, tried to copy him, but kept peering about with his wide, serious eyes. Elva trailed behind them both, hands firmly clasped at the small of her back to keep them from trembling.

"She's having a good week," the nurse was saying. "Reggie too. They had fun at our painting class yesterday. She'll have presents for you."

Father muttered something in response, and Henri smiled brightly at the promise of presents. Elva hated how normal this was for him. He didn't remember how Mother used to be, all bright eyes flashing, quick wit cutting, and a vibrant mind that never stopped brightening the world around her. She used to be the activation rune at the center of the sigil that made their household run bright and cheerful. And now they hesitated outside her door, afraid of what their fate would be when it opened.

But Elva's fingers relaxed and fell loose at her sides when the door opened, and beside her Silas sighed. Amelia was in a pale blue slip on the couch, her feet bare and pair of white slippers on the floor beneath them. Behind her through the open double doors was Reggie sprawled on the patio with his red and gold fur ruffling in the wind, purple tongue lolling out between canines bigger than Elva's thumb.

There was a book in her hands, right-side-up.

Not just any book, Elva realized, stepping closer, but Grimsley's Illustrated Night World Bestiary, which was missing from her collection at home, but referenced in quite a few of the texts she had read.

"This book," Amelia declared, her voice airy but not empty, "says the most marvelous things."

"What sort of things, Mother?" Elva said in light, calm voice as she drew nearer. "Won't you show me?"

Amelia blinked, and turned her head. "Of course..." Her voice trailed off, and her eyes flicked to Silas and Henri as they aproached.

"Elva," Father supplied, gently, as Henri, in intense eye contact with Reggie, ducked past Father to go flop into the lionhound's fur.

"Elva. Of course." She blinked, and for a moment her eyes were bright. "My dear Elfie. Come take a look. So many possible familiars for when you come of age."

Father gave Elva a dark look, as if to say not even in her dreams, but the sudden spectacle of Henri astride the lionhound's neck and charging across the flower-dotted lawn yanked him away.

Elva settled on the couch next to her mother and smiled gently, careful not to lean into the woman's frail frame. It was like courting a sparrow: get too close and she'd fly away.

Amelia flipped through the pages. "A gryphix. Sorreltails—mischievous little creatures. Catbats. Hmm, not the best we could come up with, surely? I think demons call them Kresswings." Her voice lulled. "I think... I think maybe." She looked over at Elva. "Lovely pictures, right?"