“The leaves, the branches, the bark and body of the oak tree were transformed so they drifted down, wind-blown, to cloak Carita in their softness. Renfrey stood panting with the effort of that final, wrenching metamorphose. Then he clenched his fist and raised it high above his head. The storm stopped. Yet he stood there with sweat and acid grief burning his eyes. He dared not move. It was terror that held him—the terror of what else he might do if he released even a fraction of the lock he had ...clamped on his supernatural powers. Carita, seeing his fear, felt the despairing madness leave her. Tears welled into her eyes. “Don't,” she said in distress. “It doesn't matter. “I'm all right and—nothing has changed, nothing will change.” Still he did not move. Stepping lightly through the feathers, she swept them toward her with languid gestures, collecting them in a pile. In seconds, they formed a plump mattress covered by buff satin sewn with gold cord and caught with gold tassels at the corners.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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