Free A Turn of Light by Julie E Czerneda Page A

hesitated to try. For during a turn, the edge between worlds softened. Here. Elsewhere. Crossing between was easier, for those burdened or less able.
    Disturbing what slept. That was easier too, in a turn, but nothing sane would try.
    Ease and threat were fleeting. The turn swept across Marrowdell, unstoppable, uncaring. It passed him by, and his claw disappeared. The pale eyes of efflet winked out, row after row, while along the branches of the towering neyet flared a multitude of tiny stars, as what seemed leaves became hordes of busy ylings, the stars the light caught in their hair. The tiny beings had been trapped on this side of the edge, like other small ones, disdained by the mighty, overlooked by those who should have taken care and offered rescue. Resilient and industrious, they’d made new homes along the neyet’s exposed roots. During each turn, their multitudes held hands and sang, or threw themselves with abandon into the air to dance, cloaks rustling.
    Though some stood guard, barbed weapons at the ready. Nyphrit would eat them if they could.
    The turn passed the neyet.
    Leaves giggled in trees. Ylings weren’t the most serious of folk.
    Wisp watched the night’s edge unfold shadows along the Tinkers Road. Soon it would douse the glistening water and cross, bringing the turn to the village. The few small ones who dwelt there were too wise to leave themselves exposed. The roses on the girl’s home became only more beautiful, though, like the oak at the river’s edge, they’d sent roots into his world and now held opinions.
    When shadows met the road’s last bend, when night followed the plunge of the river and slipped down the final scarred cliff of Marrowdell, their worlds would part company and this day’s turn be done. The limit of the edge, of his duty, and the line the girl must never cross.
    The villagers would light their fires and lamps, draw curtains, close doors. He’d asked the girl if inside their buildings they pretended night hadn’t come. She’d laughed her beautiful laugh and said, not at all. Night was a time of rest and peace. Of sleep and dreams.
    For those who could rest. The girl blamed Marrowdell for the whispers that disturbed her aunt and sent other would-be settlers away, but Wisp was aware of no malice or intent. Their dreams crept to the edge of their world. Here, they met the edge of his. That was all. Some could tolerate that glimpse; most, it seemed, could not.
    This turn ended. Dew, that nuisance of late summer evenings, began to sparkle on the plants around him. Despite his thorough distaste for damp, Wisp remained. He would wait for the lights in the Nalynn home, wait till those lights disappeared again.
    “Don’t dream,” he would say then. “Stay here and content, Dearest Heart.”
    For her sake, and theirs.

FOUR
    L EAVING WAINN TO wait outside, cautioned to keep from any window, Jenn tiptoed into the empty kitchen. She was careful not to step through the late day sunbeams leaning through window and door, and kept behind the ladder and half-drawn curtain that separated the necessary clutter of the kitchen from the rest of the house. Her aunt and Peggs murmured peacefully in the parlor, something about tomorrow’s supper. Grateful to avoid explaining either Wainn or her mud-stained feet, Jenn chose a stick of charcoal from Peggs’ cup and put it in her pocket. The sketchpad securely under one arm, she went to the pie and quickly ran a knife through the pastry, separating a generous slice for Wainn and a slightly smaller one for herself so he wouldn’t eat alone. She’d no more put the pieces on a plate, adding forks, when she heard her name and froze.
    “Jenn should be home by now.” Their aunt’s voice was concerned. “I hope she hasn’t gone off again.”
    “Not this late,” Peggs reassured her. “I’m sure she’s with Poppa at the mill.”
    She would be soon, Jenn told herself guiltily. She eased toward the back door, avoiding the plank that