Alis Volat Propriis

Alis Volat Propriis

    by Joanne Blessing

Prologue - Alea Iacta Est

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Prior to her eighth birthday, Sara Gordon had never heard the word "Muggle," never used a broom for anything other than sweeping the driveway (and only a push-broom, not a standard broom, at that) and never considered herself all that much different from her three brothers Michael, Peter and David. She knew that she was adopted -- she didn't look a bit like her parents, who were both

hazel-eyed blondes, or brothers, blondes with hazel (Michael), blue (Peter) and green (David) eyes -- but she thought nothing particularly peculiar of it. After all, millions of kids worldwide were adopted.

Sara was tall for her age, with nearly black eyes that had just a hint of deep violet overtones when viewed in proper sunlight, and shiny straight black hair with a very unusual lock of pearly white hairs that ran from her left temple all the way down the length of her hair. Michael sometimes joked that it meant she was a witch in disguise, that the lock of white hair was the mark of a witch. Iris Gordon, a hairdresser by trade, routinely frosted her daughter's hair to downplay the bizarre color deviance.

Sara loved animals, horses in particular, and seemed to be able to communicate with them. Animals seemed to love her -- stray dogs always came to her, cats trailed her everywhere, horses always obeyed her and performed willingly for her, and even birds liked to follow her, in their own discreet ways. In fact, a common black crow had made her its master, submitting itself to domestication of a sort. The crow, christened "Onyx" for the shiny black sheen of the bird's feathers, slept in a makeshift nest on Sara's windowsill, and always came when called by a sharp three-noted whistle. Onyx even suffered to have a tiny ID tag attached to her leg. No one could figure out why a feral bird would take to ordinary Sara Gordon such as this one did, but most who noticed such a thing just shrugged and muttered "C'est la vie" or something like that. So, despite all her interesting little deviances, Sara was really just an ordinary little Wiltshire girl.

Or so she thought.

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It was the morning of her eighth birthday. A Saturday, which meant no school. Mum was at work, Dad was at work, and the boys were with their friends at the local riding academy. Sara, who had taken a bad spill off a horse three days ago and had sprained a wrist, was at home on doctor's orders, brooding moodily over her misfortune. Grammy Georgetta, who lived with them, was still asleep upstairs, so Sara had the house mostly to herself. She had just finished the daily crossword in the newspaper and was fencing around for something to do.

She heard the postman arrive with today's post, depositing the mail in the mail slot. She was bored anyway, so she decided to go ahead and retrieve the mail, seeing as there was nothing on the television and she had already reread "National Velvet" three times in the past month. She wanted badly to go to the library, but it was a long distance away from the house and Mum and Dad were busy all the time. Maybe today after work they'd take her...

As she was picking up the mail and sorting it into the various inboxes (bills, junk, subscriptions, et cetera), she heard the raucous cawing of a crow just outside the door. Peeking out, she saw Onyx standing primly on a plain brown package.

"Budge along, you carrion," Sara said crossly, swatting the bird away from the package. "What's this?"

"Raaawk!" screeched Onyx, indignantly.

Sara peeled the envelope off the package and opened it inquiringly. It was a card, and it had a beautiful photo of her hero, Secretariat, in full flight and full glory as he streaked home in record time in the 1973 Belmont Stakes.

Inside was a handwritten note done in flourishing script:

    Happy birthday to my little Tigerlily!

    You don't know me, but my name is Rhiannon Storm, and I

    am your birth mother. I would like to meet with you in

    person, preferably alone, to get to know you, and answer

    any questions you might have. I can assure you that I did

    not want to give you up for adoption, but had to for your

    own safety. Please send me a reply as soon as you get this

    message. Just tie a little message to your bird Onyx's leg

    and she will get the message to me.

        I anxiously await your response,

                Rhiannon Storm

Sara read the letter once, then reread it again, as comprehension slowly sunk in. Her birth mother? Giving her up for adoption for her own safety? And why use a crow to deliver a message?

Apprehension -- the underlying sense that there was something alltogether foul and unnatural at play here -- warred briefly with curiosity -- the nagging craving to see the donor of her genetic makeup. Should she ignore the letter? Show it to Mum? Reply to it? Call the police? Back and forth, back and forth, until at last curiosity thoroughly trounced its opponent, sending apprehension scurrying sullenly for cover.

She tore off a piece of the brown paper of the package and, fumbling for the pen she had tucked behind her ear, she scribbled a quick message: "Okay. Granny's still asleep, Mum and Dad are at work, and my brothers are at the riding academy today until three."

Onyx looked at her warily as she beckoned the crow over. "Rawwk," she said, looking a little put out as Sara folded the note into a tiny bundle and slipped it just inside the ID tag. Before Sara could say anything else, though, the bird flared her wings, beat the air twice, and launched into flight.

Sara watched the bird disappear over treetops, then picked up the packaged and started to take it inside. She had only just gotten inside the door and closed the door when she heard a loud BANG! like a gunshot or car backfire.

"RAAAWWWK!! RAAAAWK!!"

Damn, Sara thought, that sounds like a bloody *seagull!*

She went to the door, flinging it open to see what the heck was the matter with Onyx, and saw to her amazement a beautiful woman standing on her porch.

The woman was taller than Mum, probably Dad's height. She had porcelain skin and intense amethyst colored eyes. She was dressed in what looked at first like a black trench-coat. On her head, she wore what looked like a parody of a french baret, that concealed any hair she had.

"Sara?" she asked.

"Er," Sara couldn't quite get her brain to work again.

"I'm Rhiannon," the woman said. "I see you have the family trademark," she added, pointing with a slender finger to Sara's temple, to the white lock of hair that refused any coverups.

"What?"

"I said you have the family trademark. My mother had it, Grandmother had it, and I think Great-Grandmother had it. And so do I." She swept the hat off her head, shaking loose a cascading mantle of shimmering black hair. At the very center of her forehead (where Michael had what Mum called a Widow's Peak) was a broad stripe of white hair, just like Sara's.

"I am Rhiannon Storm, the Crystal Muse."