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The Black Kite on Wendle’s shoulder spread it’s wings and arrowed it’s beak at Rhoda. Wendel turned her head to look away. Rhoda took the moment of false privacy to extinguish the daemon and shift onto her feet. She sheathed the dagger but not the attitude.
“These monks believe things, girl. Things I don’t and things I know you don’t, but it never goes to piss on someone you don’t need pissed on, ” Wendle inclined her head, “Take my meaning?”
Rhoda flicked her head as much in assent as in a brush off. She took both the older woman’s meanings just fine, then broke her silence. “She’s my sister.”
Another gust drove through the glade pulling at the flames atop each lit candle but not dragging them free—enchanted. Spell-inscribed canvas streamers hanging from the alter’s hexagonal umbrella slapped the rafters. Shards of snow blustered down between them. The kite adjusted it’s grip.
Wendle locked eyes with Rhoda. And Rhoda stared back. Morgan may have been Wendle’s wife, but she was Rhoda’s only sister. When you had eight brothers one sister meant something hard to describe.
Wendle looked away as she had before. This time Rhoda noticed the dark brown curls tucked into her sister-in-law’s cowl and the gold hoop on her ear. The bird trilled a whistle. Fucking witches.
“You’ve matriculated?” Wendle asked.
“I will.”
“You won’t if I allow you to come.”
“What you allow means nothing to me.” Rhoda conjured a fresh daemon—a stalking cat this time. It glowed blue.
Wendle exhaled. “Let’s get you killed then. And put that out.”
The witch gestured lightly at the blue cat. It winked to black like a falcon snatched it on the wing. Rhoda hid her surprise.
297 words on day 584