Luna Brightwood's Arc

Chapter 3 of 22

Luna came down off the ridge with the horned cat's frames safe in her camera and the pale towers pulling at her from beyond the pines. She wanted a closer shot before the wet light turned. The dragon rode her shoulder. The owl flew ahead, low between the trunks, tracking a path she could not see from the ground. The owl stopped at the edge of a stream. Yesterday this had been a thin frozen channel she could have stepped over. Now it ran fast and brown, waist-high in the middle, carrying broken ice and pine needles. On the far bank the trees thinned and the towers rose, white stone streaked with pink. She could see a flowered archway at the base of the slope, cherry blossoms trailing over pale stone. She wanted that frame badly. Luna knelt and tested the water with her hand. Cold. The current pushed hard against her wrist. Her camera bag was not sealed. One slip and the horned cat frames, the lily frames, every shot from the week would be gone. She sat back on her heels and tried to think of a way to hold the bag above her head across twenty feet of moving water. There was no way that did not risk it. The dragon chirped and lifted off her shoulder. It flew low over the stream, dipped, and came back. Then it tugged at the strap of her camera bag with small claws. She pulled the bag away. The dragon tugged again, harder, and looked at the owl. The owl dropped from its branch and hooked its talons into the top loop of the bag. Luna understood. She unclipped the bag from her hip. She lifted it slowly. The owl beat its wings and took the weight. The dragon steadied the far side with its claws. Together they carried the bag out over the water, wobbling, dipping once so the bottom skimmed the surface, then rising. They set it down on the far bank in the grass. Luna waded in. The water climbed to her thighs, then her waist. The current shoved her sideways twice. She braced on a submerged stone and kept moving. The white dress clung heavy and cold. She reached the far bank shaking, hauled herself up, and grabbed the bag. Dry. She checked the camera body with wet fingers. Dry. She looked up through the trees. The flowered archway stood a short walk ahead, and past it the towers climbed higher than she had guessed from the ridge. A shape moved between two columns, pink and gold, wings folded. Luna wiped her hands on the grass and lifted the camera. Then she heard footsteps in the blossoms on the near side of the arch, light and quick, and a small voice said hello before she saw who was speaking.