I Shall Wear Midnight
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She stared into his bloodshot eyes. His hands had closed automatically into fists because he had always been a man who thought with them. Soon he would try to use them; she knew it, because it was easier to punch than think.
Sometimes, when she was much younger, she had seen the ancient fish swimming in and out of the chalk pit, ancient fish from the time when the Chalk was the land under the waves. The water had gone long ago, but the souls of the ghost fish hadn’t noticed. They were as armored as knights and ancient as the Chalk. But she didn’t see them anymore. Perhaps your eyesight changes as you get older, she thought.
She did it without thinking – or, rather, thinking so fast that her thoughts had no time to wave to her as they flashed by.
Omens were all very well, but sometimes it would help if people just wrote things down! It never paid, though, to ignore those little thoughts and coincidences, those sudden memories, little whims. Quite often they were another part of your mind, trying hard to get a message through to you – one that you were too busy to notice.
It was . . . the kind of face that peered out of tower windows, waiting for a knight with nothing better to do with his time than save its owner from dragons, monsters, and if all else failed, boredom.
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