The Shadow Sisters

[E2] Chapter 1 - Bronagh Quinn

It was late when Bronagh Quinn arrived into Number 9 Winter Walk. She entered the cottage belonging to her Grandmother instead of returning to her mother and step father in 45 Amber Lane. Something told her that she'd need wiser, sager advice after what she'd witnessed tonight.

Her clothes were sodden and her hair saturated as she reflected on it all, there in the hallway. When she rang her hair out like a towel, the water battered down onto the mat.

It was a rude thing to do, but she was barely even thinking about etiquette, for all she could really think about was what she had seen in the sky tonight.

A blue and violet shimmer.

The mixture of emotions that it'd conjured within her was confusing. It had been both terrible and beautiful enough to move her to tears. She imagined it was how those people must have felt in the old Biblical stories when confronted by angels.

Was that what she had seen tonight? A miracle, courtesy of the divine?

After removing her waterlogged shoes and soaking socks, she crept down the corridor in her bare feet.

She had barely made it a few steps before a voice said, "Did you see it, girl?"

Bronagh followed the voice into the living room.

The room was large enough to be both spacious and crammed with belongings. They were organised into stacks and piled to the sides, so that there was a clear lane from one side of the room to the other.

Her Great Great Grandmother sat in the corner, on a brown leather sofa, positioned next to the fire. She stirred the coals with a poker and the hearth fizzed red and orange in response.

Abigail Short, at 109-years-old, was the second eldest resident in all of Willow Town, just after Nigel Ferryman, who was an impressive 113-years-old.

She did not have the deep facial crags and moats that one expected of a person of her age. Instead, her wrinkles were shallow but scattered everywhere, like a sheet of paper that had been crumpled and then unfolded. She appeared to be much like a regular old person, with her silver hair, her sagging neck, and her baggy eyes. She did not seem nearly so ancient as the high number might suggest.

Perhaps the most surprising thing about Granny Abby was how mentally sharp she remained, retaining the mind of someone many decades younger. She attributed these gifts not to genetics or magic, but to her stubborn habit of consuming two raw eggs first thing in the morning, followed by a brisk walk along the river.

"Oh, didn't realise you'd still be up," Bronagh said.

"But of course. It's a special occasion, after all." She reached for her tea, which she preferred to have in a handled glass rather than a mug, so that the cloves, cinnamon sticks, stars anise, lemon wedges, and tea bag were all visible as they danced around each other in the caramel-coloured murk.

"See what?" Bronagh asked, wanting to know what her Granny had meant by her initial remark when she'd first entered.

Granny Abby sipped her tea. "The doorway in the sky," she remarked after a quick swallow. "Don't tell me that you missed it."

"I saw... something."

"Something that not everyone saw."

Bronagh nodded, recalling the bizarre moment by the pier, when everyone present was frozen in what she could only describe as a sort of time web.

"But not you," Granny Abby said. "You are special. You are chosen."

Bronagh wandered through the lane until she felt the warmth of the fire. In less than a few seconds, she felt it crisping her clothes, tightening her skin. "I came right here, because I thought it was urgent and thought that you should know."

"Know what, sweetheart?"

"That there was another."

"Another who glimpsed the doorway?"

Bronagh nodded. "She was unaffected by its spell."

"Who is she?"

"The one I told you about. The one who bumped into me in front of our school, who gave me the bad feeling."

That was when Granny Abby lay her glass down. As far as Bronagh could recall, her grandmother's hands had never shook. Even as she watched her firstborn son being lowered down into the earth, they were as still as the mountains. But now, there was a slight tremble that caused her to spill some of her tea. "That one stands on the other side of this war."

"Have you seen her?"

"I don't need to. I can feel it, even now. She's not alone either."

"She has a sister too." Bronagh tensed, as if suddenly realising the seriousness of her Granny's words. "Is this it then? Is this the beginning of the great war that you always told me about?"

"Not yet, no. The side of salvation has yet to ascend to full strength. Not even close. They still need us loyalists to stand resolute as they recruit soldiers."

"Soldiers?"

"But of course. They must build a force which is sufficient to crush their enemies. It's good that we wiped out so many in previous eras, but a last gasp remains. It is little in the face of the divine though. Only a few can stand in our way."

"You once told me that it's our duty to clear a path."

"That remains true."

"What can we do?"

Granny Abby nodded to the wall just over the fire, where there hung a rack.

Bronagh wandered over to it and removed the item. The hilt was a smooth porcelain. The grooves which had once fit the fingers of her father were now a perfect match for her own. The blade itself was of a cold, serrated iron, and as incredibly sharp as if it were brand new, rather than centuries old.

"You know what you must do," Granny Abby said.

Bronagh nodded, for she knew her destiny and knew that she must not waver. She thought of the faces of Marie and Hannah Shadow before thrusting the dagger forward.