Ebony was dreaming.
Her long hair was sprawled across the pillow: a mess of red tangles against the clean white cotton. Her arms were tucked in tight; her hands clutched into fists. Even though there was nothing to grab hold of, her fingers where white and bloodless from the sustained, concentrated tension.
She did not twist and turn in her sleep. Her pillows were not flung across the room as her body fumbled and fought its own demons in the dark.
She was still. Her expression was calm; her lips were softly closed, her eyelids gently pressed together. The only sign of something wrong was the pallid, sickly-white pall spreading over her knuckles and across her fingers.
Ebony had dreamed all her life – all witches did. All witches were taught that the realm of unconscious play hid at once all the secrets of eternity. Within dreams the totality of every lie and every truth can be revealed: everything that may be, that may not be, that never will be, and that will be. Within the swirl of shapes, colors, times, places, and lives lay everything imagined.
All the good and all the bad. All of it.