The Many-Angled World (Mystic Albion III)

Jet-lag is a killer, but pushing ahead anyway.

Prologue I: England, 1536

Anne Boleyn knelt on the cushion, her hands bound behind her back, and waited.

There was nothing else to do. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her fate was sealed. She had made a bargain with an entity and the price, she had been told, was that she would not live to see the promised land. She had thought she would die, perhaps in childbirth, and barely live long enough to see the newborn before she passed on to the great unknown. It seemed a sick joke, as she waited for her execution, to die in such a manner, to be accused of unnatural crimes and be sentenced to death by the king she had once lobed, but …

She felt calm, unnaturally so, as she waited. She had kept her side of the bargain. She had drawn the king’s eyes, then played her role to perfection. She would not be a mistress, like her own sister, but a wife and a queen. Her child would be legitimate, the result of a tryst between a married man and woman; her child would be in line to inherit the throne. It had been difficult to play the game to perfection, to make it clear that the king’s desire would only be sated if he married her; she had teased and flirted, without ever quite crossing the line until the die had been firmly cast. She felt no guilt, for all the former queen’s partisans – and the king’s daughter – considered her little more than a whore. And yet …

Anne closed her eyes, thinking of her child. Their child. Elizabeth would be Queen – Anne knew it, with a certainty that could not be denied – and yet, she would have a long and hard life ahead of her, even after she sat on her father’s throne. Anne knew, all too well, that the king had wanted a boy, that he had broken with his first wife and parted from Rome out of a desperate need for a male heir, but she took comfort from the prophecy. Her daughter would be queen, her reign would be blessed, and the Folk – the few remaining magicians – would have their gates to the other world. They would live forever in a land of magic, parted from the Burners; they would live their lives as they should be lived, rather than hiding in the shadows as the hunters closed in, searching for the last traces of magic. Anne felt cold – the last of her magic was long gone – and yet, she knew her name would be remembered for thousands of years to come. She would go down in history as the mother of salvation, as the witch who had sacrificed her life for her people. She would be known long after the king’s memory passed into dust.

Her lips twitched in bitter amusement. She had been charged with adultery and incest and witchcraft, the latter charge the only one that held any truth. She doubted there was a single man or woman in London who believed the charges, even in an age where the last traces of magic were still visible if one cared to look. The idea that a decent god-fearing woman would commit adultery was bad enough, but incest? It was outrageous, born of ignorance and malice and a king’s desperate need to pretend he wasn’t to blame for his lack of a male heir. No queen was ever alone, not even in her most private moments. Anne could have proved her innocence, if her husband had been interested in listening. But he’d steeled himself to the task of disposing of her, and her family, and that meant …

The clock ticked, once. Anne tensed. Time was running out. She would be taken to the block and beheaded … she wanted to think escape was possible, but she knew better. There was no one in London who would put his life at risk for her, even the learned men and religious thinkers she’d patronised when she had thought that reformation would save the Folk from extinction. The king was the only one who could spare her, and she knew better than to think that he would. She had to die, to secure her legacy and her daughter’s future … she wished, not for the first time, that she could take the child in her arms one final time, yet even that had been denied her. She would have cried, if she hadn’t known her daughter would survive. Her legacy would live on …

The clock ticked, again.

Anne tensed, feeling something behind her. Her skin prickled, her blood turning to ice. She hadn’t seen anything supernatural since the night she’d made the bargain, not a single dancing fairy or even a ghost. She had wondered if she’d lost her sight, although she was painfully aware that the magic was leeching away and the creatures that depended on it were going away too. And yet …

She took a breath as the presence grew stronger. Time itself seemed to slow down, the interval between clock ticks growing longer and longer. Her heart raced as she forced herself to keep her eyes closed, even though she wanted to turn and look at the entity. She knew better – to lay eyes on such a creature was to court death – and yet, she felt the urge to let everything go. She didn’t have to let herself be marched to the block, to rest her head on the wood and wait for the executioner to end her life. She didn’t have … but she did. The farce had to be played out, right to the very end. Her blood would stain the soil, her life sealing the bargain she’d made so long ago. Perhaps that was why the entity was here, after so long. It had come to claim her personally.

Her breath caught in her throat. “Why?”

There was no answer. She hadn’t expected one. She had been taught, time and time again, of the danger of bargaining with supernatural creatures. Some were unpredictable, some were inhuman, some were outrightly malicious. They would keep their bargains, she had been assured, and they wouldn’t break their world, but they were very good at keeping the letter of the agreement while overlooking or ignoring the spirit. Be careful what you wish for, she had been told years ago, for fear you might get it. She wondered, suddenly, if their desperation to save what remained of their people had blinded them to the risks. If they had made a mistake …

A breath brushed against the back of her neck. Anne shivered, helplessly.

“Why?”

She barely had a second to realise the entity had spoken before her mind was assaulted, an endless stream of images bombarding her thoughts. She was trained in mental defence – the small subtle charms to twist a person’s mind were about the only form of magic that still worked reliably, and if she had lacked those defences she would have been hopelessly vulnerable to the hidden witches at Court – and yet, there was nothing she could do to keep the barrage from flooding her mind. The images were strange, some so incomprehensible it hurt to even look at them; she saw a red-haired woman sitting on the throne, she saw the gates opening, she saw her people striding into a brave new world …

Tears prickled in her eyes. She would die, but her people would live. It would be worth her sacrifice.

The stream of images kept coming, the world shifting in ways she could barely understand. A dying queen. A young fool of a king. A commoner who would reign like a monarch … an endless series of images that twisted in front of her mind, something that bothered her at a very primal level. Anne knew she was far from stupid, but she was also all too aware of her own ignorance. Far too much magical knowledge – dangerously won knowledge – had been lost over the centuries, or hidden away for fear of the Burners. She didn’t understand what she was seeing and yet, the world was folding …

… And twisting into something new. Something apocalyptic.

“No!”

The images stopped, abruptly. Anne opened her eyes and threw caution to the winds, looking behind her. The chamber was empty. The entity was gone … her blood ran cold as she realised what it had been trying to tell her, in the last few moments before she was marched to the block. She had been given what she wanted, and yet the price was far more than her life. She saw it all now, far too clearly. The Folk would survive, but so would their enemies …

Keys rattled in the lock. It was time.

Anne closed her eyes, as the door opened to reveal the guards, and wept for the end of the world.

Prologue II: York, England, Now

Polly stared at the laptop, trying to understand what was happening – and what, if anything, had gone wrong.

Lord Burghley had told her and the rest of the staff to remain behind, in the manor, and wait to hear from the invasion force. Polly had been glad to do as she was told, all too aware that she was a novice in magic and that there was no point in her going to St Champions and putting her life at risk. The gates would be opened one final time, she’d been told, and the Brotherhood would take possession of a whole new world. Polly couldn’t wait. She’d felt enough magic, since she had been recited, to want more. The promise of power – real power – drew her, like a moth to the flame.

But something had gone wrong.

The reports were confused, chaotic. Large swathes of the internet appeared to have dropped out completely, servers and relay stations vanishing without trace. The country’s hardened electronic infrastructure wasn’t in any better state. She had high-level access to everything from government communications nodes to CCTV cameras, yet even they appeared to be worse than useless. What remained was contradictory, babbling reports that made no sense at all. She knew the plan, knew the gates should have been opened by now … it couldn’t be a coincidence, she thought, that the crash had happened just after zero hour. The odds against that were staggering …

The ground shook, sharply.

Polly tensed. An earthquake? Earthquakes were rare, almost unknown, in Britain. Polly had heard they were more common than most thought, but she’d never felt one. She checked the live feed from the manor’s security cameras, out of habit, and saw nothing … nothing, apart from a handful of security guards checking the perimeter. It hadn’t been that long since the flash mob had appeared out of nowhere, pressing against the walls and shouting and screaming about nothing in particular … she wondered, suddenly, if the manor was about to be attacked again. It wasn’t impossible. Her boss had been looking for the refugees from the other world for the last few months, and it was quite possible they were looking for him too. And they’d sent Norris – both Norris and Norris2 – into the other world from the manor.

And that makes us a target, she thought. If the other worlders are fighting back, we might be targeted first.

Another message popped up in front of her, someone babbling nonsense about dragons, of all things, and ranting about Game of Thrones coming to life. Polly tried not to snort in disgust as the idiot went on and on about fire-breathing dragons burning the Houses of Parliament to the ground, never mind that his location was in York and there was no way in hell he could see what – if anything – was happening in London. She checked, just to be sure, and noted that the Houses of Parliament were still intact. She tried not to feel disappointed. She’d seen too much, in her career, to have any faith in politicians, but Westminster was still the Mother of Parliaments.  And yet … she knew her boss, and his peers, were the true rulers of the land. Perhaps it would be better if they came out of the shadows …

Light flared, a wave of magic that pressed against her senses in a manner that was almost painful. Polly was halfway across the room and hiding behind a wooden cabinet before her mind quite caught up with what was happening, her training taking control before she could freeze … the light burned through the cabinet, as if it was more real than anything else. It felt as if she were under the sun, the sunlight burning her skin, her muscle, her bone … she felt, just for a second, as if the entire world was burning away, leaving only the soul behind …

… And then the light just … went away.

Polly staggered. She would have collapsed if she hadn’t already been on the floor. The world was dark, so dark she was afraid she’d been struck blind before her eyes started to grow accustomed to the gloom. She stumbled to her feet, the world spinning around her like a dreamscape … she pinched herself, hard, and winced at the pain. It was no dream. She forced herself to walk to the desk and look down at the laptop. It was dead, the keyboard smoking slightly … she cursed under her breath as she looked up, realising that half the lights were dead too. Someone shouted outside … a guard, she guessed. The entire manor had been hit by … by whatever the light had been, and that meant … she reached for her smartphone and discovered it no longer worked. Her mind raced. An EMP? No, she’d seen – felt – the magic. Her skin was still prickling. She had the weirdest sense she was standing in the open, the sun concealed behind a cloud and yet feeling it’s presence. The feeling was coming from her master’s office. It felt … wrong.

She hesitated, then forced herself to walk to the door. She’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that she was not to enter the inner office unless she was invited, yet … she swallowed hard as she rested her hand against the wood, checking for fire and wards, telling herself that it was vitally important she knew what was happening inside. The wards – the little charms that made it hard for anyone to even see the door, unless their attention was drawn to it by someone who already knew it was there – were gone. She pushed the door open and peered inside, feeling an alien warmth brushing against her bare skin. The office was dark and yet she could see something – someone – standing by the desk, the form alight and yet wrapped in darkness and shadow. Polly’s eyes hurt as she tried to make out the shape, a sudden stab of pain forcing her to close her eyes …

… And when she opened them, Cecil Burghley was standing in front of her.

Polly sucked in her breath. Her master had always been handsome, in a way that could not be described as classically handsome and yet drew the eye in a manner that could not be denied, but now … he looked strange, almost alien. His face had always been sharp, as if his jaw and cheekbones had been cut from rock, yet now he had a strange glamour that caught her attention and held it firmly. His eyes were dark, almost pools of darkness staring at her … she had the strangest sense, just for a second, that there was something hidden behind him, around him, a faint shimmer of something moving … she blinked and it was gone. Her master seemed almost human ….

… No, he was human. Wasn’t he?

“Polly,” Cecil Burghley said. His voice dripped honey and battery acid. He sounded as if he were learning to talk again. “Why …?”

Polly found her voice. “What happened …?”

She wanted to ask so much more, to demand to know what had happened to the invasion force or the other world, or … but she couldn’t think of the words. Her legs felt wobbly, as if she were caught in a nightmare … she told herself, for the second time, that she wasn’t dreaming. And yet, everything had an air of unreality about it that made it hard – almost impossible – to think clearly. Her eyes met his and … she stumbled, suddenly convinced the man in front of her wasn’t her master, but something else wearing his face. She blinked …

… And the thought was gone.

“We have much work to do,” Cecil Burghley said. He sounded more human now, more his normal self. Polly blinked, again. “Contact the Prime Minister. I must speak with him immediately.”

Polly nodded, even though she knew it would be difficult – if not impossible – to arrange an immediate meeting. She had been an administrative assistant – a secretary, by any other name – at the very highest levels long enough to know the Prime Minister would have been whisked into a government bunker by now, hiding away for fear of nuclear attack. His staff would know even less about what had happened than her, but there were contingency plans for EMP strikes and those plans would be put into action … good thinking on their part, she was sure. Whatever had happened, it had enough in common with an EMP for the plans to be workable.

“Yes, My Lord,” she said, finally. She forced herself to ask a single question. “What happened to the invasion?”

Cecil Burghley seemed oddly nonplussed, as if he didn’t quite know what she was talking about. That was bizarre. He had been the one who had recruited Norris and sent him into the other world, priming him to open the gates to allow the invasion to begin. Polly had no idea what had happened afterwards, but it was clear something had gone dreadfully wrong. The world felt as if it had been tipped on its axis, perhaps taken apart and put back together again in a manner that wasn’t quite right. Her head hurt, the more she tried to think about it. The world no longer made sense.

“We have a new priority now,” he said, finally. He smiled, revealing too many teeth. Polly blinked, again. She’d been seeing things. Hadn’t she? “Destiny awaits.”

Chapter One: London, England, Now.

“Where are you, you little monster?”

Alec kept his head low as he fled into the garden, all too aware his stepmother was right behind him. The woman had never liked her stepson, to the point she’d openly suggested Alec’s father should send him to boarding school or even give him up for adoption. Alec didn’t pretend to understand why his father didn’t send the woman away instead, but he knew there was no point in arguing about it. The woman had been drinking and grim experience had taught him that it was better to be well out of her way, when she opened his father’s drinks cabinet and started pouring wine down her throat. She was unpleasant at the best of times, but when she’d been drinking she was unbearable.

“Come here, now!”

He ignored the woman’s demands as he ran into the darkness. The garden seemed larger than ever before, giving him plenty of room to hide. His father would be back soon, he told himself, and … even his stepmother wouldn’t dare touch him in front of his father’s very eyes. He wondered, not for the first time, if the woman had cast a spell on his father, something to make him fall in love with her. Alec had read enough stories about evil stepmothers – and stepfathers – to convince him that all stepparents were unpleasant, nothing more than hermit crabs crawling into the space left by an absent parent and turning what had once been a pleasant home into a nightmare. He wished, desperately, that his mother hadn’t died, that his parents had stayed together … he shuddered, helplessly, as he heard heavy footsteps coming after him. He’d hoped the darkness would protect him, but … for a moment, the garden seemed both immense and very small. Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes. His stepmother was coming closer and …

“Why so afraid, child?”

Alec stopped, dead. There was a … a something sitting on a leaf, clearly visible even in the darkness. His eyes hurt to look at it, a stabbing pain that felt as if invisible hands were twisting his eyeballs, forcing them to roll in directions he knew to be impossible. He blinked, the pain vanishing in an instant, and opened his eyes again. A little man was sitting on the leaf, no larger than his hand and yet perfect in every detail. He stared, feeling a touch of awe that washed away his fear. He’d been told there were fairies at the bottom of the garden, years ago, but he’d never actually seen one. And yet, he’d believed …

The fairy was tiny, clearly visible and yet the details were hard to pin down. Alec found it hard to see anything, save for the shimmer behind the tiny entity’s back. Wings, Alec supposed, beating so rapidly they could barely be seen. The face was ageless, young and old; the eyes were dark, more like a bird’s than a man’s. His imagination filled in the details, suggesting clothes and a stance that was both friendly and wary. It was impossible to believe the fairy posed any threat and yet, he couldn’t force himself to look away. The fairy gazed back at him, calm and composed. Alec wished, just for a second, he could sprout wings and fly away, to Neverland or Fairyland or somewhere – anywhere – else, as long as his stepmother wasn’t allowed to follow him. He’d thought about running away before, when the old woman had shouted and screamed at him, but now … he could do it.

“I hate her,” he said, feeling all the buried anger bubbling to the surface. It wasn’t fair! Why had his mother died? Why had his father married again, to a monster in human form? Why, why, why …? “She hates me.”

“You’re safe now,” the fairy said. The words appeared in his head, without passing through Alec’s ears. Alec couldn’t even see the entity’s mouth move, as it spoke. It seemed perfectly normal for such a tiny creature. “You can stay with me.”

Alec didn’t hesitate. He trusted the entity … it crossed his mind, a moment too late, that perhaps he shouldn’t, that perhaps talking to a fairy was no better than taking candy from a stranger, but the fairy couldn’t be worse than his stepmother. It just couldn’t. Alec was seven years old and he couldn’t stand the thought of spending another eleven years with his stepmother, not when there was another possibility. The woman hated him. She didn’t even try to hide it.

“I will,” he said. He had no idea what would happen next – if he’d grow wings, if he’d be shrunk until he was as small as the fairy – but he didn’t care. “I …”

Something crashed through the garden, behind him. Alec froze. His stepmother burst into the tiny clearing, a giant smashing through the bushes and trees as if they were made of paper and cardboard. She was a towering woman, large enough to scare him; her eyes, harsh and cold, fixed on him. He cowered back, trying not to breath, as the stench of her breath washed over him. She stank of alcohol and cigarettes, of adult things he knew better than to try until he was a great deal older. She reached for him and her stumbled back, trying to escape as the real world crashed with the fantasy. The fairy …

The fairy was hovering between them.

His stepmother stopped, dead. She had yelled at him, time and time again, for making things up; she had never listened, when he’d told her about his day at school or the stories he’d told with his stuffed toys or building blocks. She wouldn’t have believed him if he’d told her about the fairy … no, she was staring at the tiny creature, her eyes going wide with horror and astonishment. Alec felt a surge of pure glee as she started to step backwards, fear clearly visible on her face. He’d never seen anything actually scare her before. And now …

The fairy spoke a single word. “Mine.”

It changed, so rapidly it made Alec’s eyes hurt. It grew larger, teeth and claws shimmering around it’s growing form, and lunged forward. Alec’s stepmother had no time to run before it was on her, her body seeming to explode into a fountain of blood and gore. Alec saw her eyes explode, followed rapidly by the rest of her head; he fell backwards, his head pounding as pieces of flesh and bone fell everywhere. He hit the ground hard enough to hurt badly, smacking his head against a stone. The fairy seemed to flicker, the tiny form he’d seen earlier somehow transposed with something far darker, and nastier. It was …

Alec opened his mouth to scream, but it was far too late.

***

Sergeant Kenneth Oswald cursed under his breath as he drove through the estate.

The call had been a prank, probably. A dangerous animal, loose on the streets … he had no idea why the dispatcher had ordered him to investigate, not when all hell was breaking loose elsewhere. The police radio net had partly crashed, messages from the nearest station contrasting oddly with bursts of talking and laughter that sounded distinctly inhuman. Kenneth suspected someone had hacked the net, probably intending to distract the police while they did something … or perhaps it was just another prank. The days in which prank callers, kids wasting police time, actually faced any sort of consequences for their crimes were long gone. A few years in jail, or even a month or two picking up litter, would teach them a lesson, but it was politically impossible to do anything of the sort. Kenneth cursed the uniformed politicians in police uniforms under his breath as he parked the car, reminding himself he only had a few years to go until retirement. He’d leave the force, move to a small town miles from anywhere, and forget the nightmare enveloping the cities. It wouldn’t be his problem any longer.

He clambered out of the car, gripping his flashlight in one hand as he looked up and down the street. It was surprisingly dark, the only source of light the stars overhead. The streetlights had been vandalised long ago and never been replaced, leaving the estate trapped in the shadows. Kenneth winced as he locked the door and started to walk, pacing himself as he made his way down the street. The hopelessness was almost a physical force, a grim reminder that anyone born on the estate would be lucky if they made it out. There were too many pitfalls for young men and women – drugs, prostitution, radical politics – and too few chances to leave the estate behind. It was almost a black hole, sucking its inhabitants into the gravity well and keeping them trapped. The wind shifted, blowing a hint of burning embers towards him. Kenneth tensed, eyes flickering further down the street. There was nothing there …

… And yet, his instincts were sounding the alarm.

He kept moving, keeping one hand on his truncheon. The proposals to arm every policeman in London had gone nowhere, and perhaps that was for the best, but his instincts were screaming at him to turn and run. He hadn’t felt so nervous since the first day he’d stepped onto the streets as a uniformed office, empowered to enforce the law and charged to protect the population, even from themselves. It wasn’t easy to be the iron fist in the velvet glove, to be calm and reasonable and yet firm; he knew, deep inside, that it was just a matter of time before he made a career-ending mistake. There were too many provocations, too many radicals intent on embarrassing the police or … he shook his head as he reached the end of the street. It was quiet. Too quiet.

His lips twitched at the thought, although it wasn’t really funny. London never slept. The ordinary law-abiding folks might be indoors, the doors and windows firmly bolted, but the streets were never truly empty. Here, so far from Westminster, the darkness belonged to the druggies or the radicals. His eyes lingered on a boarded-up home, soon to become a drug den if it wasn’t already. The walls were covered with obscene graffiti, making it hard – impossible – for whoever owned it to sell or rent, at least to anyone remotely desirable. And that meant …

Something shifted, a gust of warm air brushing against him. He looked up and down the street, his head spinning – suddenly – as he realised something was there. It was hard, almost impossible, to force himself to see it. A giant hulking shadow, with immense wings and huge red eyes, perched in the middle of the road … his brain stopped, just for a second, as he felt his legs buckle. The creature – the dragon – was simply impossible. It was … a wash of panic ran through him. There might be something in the air, something hallucinogenic … it wasn’t impossible. He’d seen fellow officers get poisoned, when they raided drug lairs, and it was quite possible he’d breathed in something dangerous. His hand dropped to his radio, his mouth suddenly dry as he tried to think what to say. The dispatcher wouldn’t believe him … he found the emergency beacon, concealed in his belt, and pushed it. Every policeman in the area would be on the way within moments, converging on his position. An officer in trouble took priority over nearly everything else.

The dragon moved, rising on its hind legs until it was towering over him. Kenneth found himself stepping backwards, unable to take his eyes off the best. It was impossible – it had to be impossible – and yet, he found himself believing what he saw. The dragon was real in a way he found impossible to deny, a presence that was simply too big … he saw it open its mouth, revealing too many teeth, and stumbled backwards as it breathed fire into the air, illuminating the entire street. A wave of heat brushed against him, an instant before the dragon took flight. Kenneth found himself on his knees as he saw it vanish into the air, tears prickling in his eyes …

It was impossible. He had to be seeing things. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

***

Syeda Ali rubbed her eyes as the plane turned again, cursing under her breath. It should have been a simple flight from Glasgow to London, an hour in the air followed by five hours in the airport before they boarded the flight to Bangladesh. Her aunt had been proud of the bargain she’d secured, booking a very late flight from Glasgow and then a very early one from London. She hadn’t known that their landing would be delayed for hours … Syeda hid her amusement with an effort, even though there was nothing really funny about it. They were already dangerously late for the second flight, if it hadn’t been cancelled completely. She had no idea what was going on below them, but what should have been an hour’s flight had somehow morphed into four hours over London.

She told herself to be glad of the delay, even though she knew it wouldn’t last forever. Her aunt had been tight-lipped about quite why they were going to Bangladesh, suggesting – to a young girl of marriageable age – that she intended to introduce Syeda to a young man and ensure they married before she returned to Britain. Syeda had seen it happen before, time and time again. A youngster would be taken abroad and told they had to marry someone they didn’t know, for the good of the family, and if they said no … Syeda shuddered inwardly, trying to brace herself for the tidal wave of emotional blackmail she knew was in her future. If she said no … she didn’t want to think about what would happen. She would be lucky if she wasn’t completely disowned.

Tears prickled in the corner of her eye. It wasn’t fair. She wanted to get a job and marry someone she chose, but one was impossible and the other … she knew girls who had been forced to leave their jobs, after they married someone who was unable to cope with a wife who earned more than them, or only held their jobs with their husband’s permission. She had dreamed of rising high, of reaching the top of her profession, but it would be impossible if she married the wrong person. She would be reduced, very quickly, to a wife and mother and little else … she shuddered, trying not to think about how her in-laws would treat her. Her mother had treated her sister-in-law like a servant, and now …

She swallowed, inwardly, as the sun rose. The plane was descending, finally. They’d land and see if they could get another flight, and then … she wanted to run, to simply leave, but it would mean cutting ties with her entire family. She would never see her parents or siblings again. She wasn’t even sure where she’d go, if she could go anywhere. There was little hope of escape.

Something moved, in the brightening sky. Syeda leaned forward, wondering if it was another plane. The pilot hadn’t been very informative, but he had told his passengers that they weren’t the only aircraft that had been delayed. Perhaps … she frowned, realising the moving object – objects – were getting closer. Too close … they were coming right at the aircraft. She felt too tired to be afraid, even though she was starting to wonder if they were missiles. Perhaps there had been a terrorist attack, perhaps …

… And then the objects came into view.

Syeda stared in disbelief. Three youngsters, no older than herself, were flying on broomsticks … it was impossible. She was seeing things. A ripple of shock ran through the aircraft as the passengers stared, some standing upright to peer out the windows as the flying people came closer. Syeda swallowed, hard. Two young woman and a young man, wearing robes … their faces were alight with sheer delight, in their own freedom, their hair blowing in the wind as they closed with the aircraft. She felt an odd little lump in her throat as she saw their joyful faces. They were free, able to go wherever they liked, while she …

“It has to be a stunt,” an older man said. There was no conviction in his voice. He was trying to convince himself he wasn’t seeing what he was seeing. “A publicity stunt.”

The flying teenagers flew next to the plane for a long moment – a girl looked at the aircraft, her eyes meeting Syeda’s for a long moment – and then they were gone, vanishing into the distance so fast they were gone before she knew what was happening. Her cheeks felt damp … it took her a moment to realise she was crying, sobbing silently as the real world reasserted itself. She was crying for her own freedom, the freedom she’d lost well before she’d known what freedom was. The girl had grown up with a power and freedom Syeda  had never known existed … she knew it to be true, even though she couldn’t have put the feeling into words. She wasn’t the only one, she realised numbly, as the plane flew lower, the airport slowly coming into view. They’d seen a glimpse of a better world, a land of freedom and wonder, a land denied to them … she swallowed hard, forcing herself to sit back in her seat. The older man was still babbling, insisting they hadn’t seen anything, but he was a fool. He couldn’t even convince himself. And …

Syeda knew, deep inside, that it had been real …

… And the world had changed overnight.