Chapter Thirteen

Amaris sat in the barn clutching a dagger in both hands, the blade pointed at the roof. Her eyes were pressed shut and her knuckles were white with pressure. Her eyebrow twitched everytime a sailor yelled too loudly on deck, or stomped across the level above her head. She tried to focus on the feel of the blade in her hands. On the cold hard handle and the shape of it. The shape that she was trying so hard to change, to twist, or elongate or flatten. She breathed in, trying to fill her lungs with salty air but instead got the smell of old hay and burned wood. When the goat decided to try and lick her face she finally gave up and slumped back, pushing it away and throwing the dagger across the room.

“What are you doing?” she looked up to find mirage leaning over the low swinging doors.

“Nothing” she answered too quickly.

He looked down at the dagger on the ground then gave her a pointed stare. “Should I be concerned?”