Roswyn Brightwillow's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Roswyn Brightwillow had one night left to find a paint that glowed, and none of the jars in her satchel would do it. She knelt on the flat stone at the edge of Moon Lake, red hair falling into her eyes, glasses sliding down her nose. Behind her, a long stretch of pale rock waited for the mural that was supposed to wake the fairy realm sleeping under the water. Her grandmother had sworn the sleepers would rise only for a picture painted in true moonlight. Roswyn had silver powder, crushed pearl, chalk, and thinned milk. She smeared each one on the stone. Each one dried gray. She sat back on her heels and pressed her palms to her eyes. The lake was still. The moon sat fat and white above it, close enough to touch and useless to her. She had traveled three weeks to reach this shore. She had one jar of binding oil, one clean brush, and until dawn. Something landed in her lap. Roswyn froze. A puppy blinked up at her, no bigger than a loaf of bread, white fur standing out in every direction. Its paws were pink and round as plums. Two butterfly wings folded and opened on its back, thin as soap film, catching the moon and throwing it back in soft bands of blue and rose. Where the light slid off the wings, it left a faint dust on her skirt. She touched the dust. It clung to her finger and shone. The puppy licked her wrist and shook itself. More dust drifted down onto the stone. It did not fade. It held the moon inside it, the way a jar holds water. Roswyn's hands started moving before her thinking caught up. She scraped the dust into her empty jar with the edge of a leaf. She poured in a thumb of binding oil. She stirred with the handle of her brush. The mixture went pale, then bright, then brighter, until the jar itself seemed to breathe light. She painted one stroke on the stone. A curve, a test. The line stayed lit after her hand moved away. It pulsed once, like something under it had noticed. Roswyn laughed, quick and shocked. The puppy wagged its short tail and beat its wings once, sending down another shower. "Stay," she whispered. "Please stay." It climbed off her lap and sat on the stone beside her jar, watching the water. Its wings kept moving in a slow, patient rhythm, shedding just enough to keep the paint alive. Roswyn dipped her brush. She had her pigment. She had until sunrise. And out on the black surface of the lake, small circles were beginning to form, as if something below had heard the first stroke and turned toward the sound.