The Dancing Dove
I write with the figure of the old huntress’s cat watching me. I used to think there was something odd about it, something almost magical, but no. It’s just a very well-made carving of a black cat. Whoever cut it even made the tiny face look a bit clever. Of late I’ve gotten in the habit of carrying it with me in my pocket. Ancestress Rebakah has her shelf high over my head, but I don’t think she grudges the cat’s company to me.
I met the oddest little fellow today, Alan of Trebond. He’s come to start as a page at the palace. He’s got a tough oak burl for a minder, Coram Smythesson. That one’s a smith and former soldier and no fool at all. He warned young Alan I’m a thief. The lad, being full of spirit and sauce, didn’t mind that at all. My Sight was all around him, making him glow like fire. There’s something about him.… I think we might do one another good. I told him so. It’s laughable, a little lord like that and me doing good for each other, but my Sight doesn’t steer me wrong.
He’s a redhead. I hope it’s true, about redheads and tempers. He’ll need one, the way those pages and squires pick on each other. And he’s got purple eyes. I never saw the like.
* * *
On his desk, in the pits that served the cat figure as eyes, twin sparks of purple glowed, then vanished.