Speaker 1: A Forest of earth and mud, an Arcane Heart Studio production.
Speaker 2: Created and written by Ainsley Bay.
Speaker 1: Chapter eleven, The Magical Dance of Dust.
Speaker 2: It starts with the dust. I'm sitting in the library
trying to focus on a genealogy chart. I started compiling
for the slates, but I keep getting distracted by the light.
The afternoon sun is streaming through the high windows, catching
the dust motes in the air. But they aren't just drifting.
They're dancing, but not in the way dust normally dances, random, chaotic,
subject to the whims of air currents. These moats are
moving in perfect spirals, clockwise, then counterclockwise, then lifting in unison,
like a curtain rising on a stage. I watch them
for five minutes, then ten stop it, I whisper. They
don't stop, if anything, They spin faster, glittering like crushed diamonds.
It's beautiful. It's objectively, undeniably beautiful. It's also making the
hair on the back of my arms stand up. Vivienne,
I jump, knocking my pen off the table. It rolls
across the floor and stops perfectly parallel to the edge
of the rug. Malcolm is standing in the doorway. He's
wearing a suit as always, but his tie is loosened slightly,
a rare concession to the fact that we're actually relaxing
for once. I didn't mean to startle you, he says.
You walk too quietly. I say, retreating the pen It's
a predator trait. You should work on stomping more. He smiles,
that new, genuine smile that still catches me off guard.
I'll take it under advisement. He steps into the room,
his eyes sweeping a space. It's lovely in here to day,
the light it is, I say, it's magical. I say
the words with purpose, not as a challenge, but an
observation of what is objectively true. What we're looking at
is impossible. He pauses, just for a second. His gaze
flickers to the window, to the spiraling dust, and I
see a shadow pass over his face, a tightening of
the jaw, a flash of something that looks suspiciously like concern, Malcolm,
I ask. The mask snaps back into place instantly. Just tired,
he says smoothly. The timber negotiations took longer than expected.
Dealing with humans is tiring. I don't take offense because
I know that Malcolm didn't mean me. I'm pack now,
maybe you should rest. I say the words gently, meaning
to be supportive, but he's back to being the alpha.
We have a guest arriving tomorrow, he interrupts, effectively closing
the subjects friend from the university, right, maya you remember
COI talks about her sometimes in between brooding silences. Malcolm sighs,
moving to the fireplace. The flames rear up as he approaches,
crackling with a rhythmic pop pop hiss that sounds vaguely
like applause. He stares into the fire, his expression unreadable.
I worry about him, he says quietly. I told them
not to bring a human here. It's too soon. He's
too careless. He needs a friend. I don't say more
than that. It's clear to everyone that Ki is alone
and suffering. Perhaps he turns to face me as half
as the heart is filled with flashes of slaves for memories.
I saw, and in my opinion, I felt a stranger
with five men to watch it. I felt a road
or a pain to it when a son would be slave.
I look at Malcolm, the alpha who wanted me dead
a month ago, now standing in my library, discussing his
son's love life. I look at the fire, I look
at the dust, and suddenly I'm more concerned about the magic.
It's snuck on me and it's new. Keir says it's normal.
But how can magic be normal? Perhaps I'm just too human.
But it doesn't feel right. It's just the house welcoming me.
I mutter, what was that? Malcolm asks nothing. I smile
at him, and this time it reaches my eyes, just
thinking that we should make sure the guest room is ready.
If Maya is coming, we want her to be comfortable.
We do. Malcolm agrees, we want everyone to be comfortable.
He leaves the room, then walking with that silent predatory grace.
The fire dips as he exits, then flares back up.
I sit back in my chair. The pen is still
perfectly parallel to the rug. The dust is still dancing.
It's fine, I tell myself. Everything is fine. If the
magic wants to perform for us, if it wants to
turn our lives into a perfect golden fairy tale, who
am I to stop it? Maybe we deserve a little magic,
Maybe we deserve to be pampered. I pick up the
pen and go back to the genealogy chart. Outside, the
wind picks up, rustling the autumn leaves. It sounds like
a melody, a lullaby. I hewme along. The notes are pure,
crystal clear and utterly flawless, too flawless, But I close
my eyes anyway, and I let the perfect golden song
pull me under.
Speaker 1: The shadow moves where the light one stood. So then
whispers in the et the wind did cry.
Speaker 2: It calls the mind
Speaker 1: A fleeting acles signal box, rosing fre