Fauna [antikvár]

The City Book he wakes to the sound of claws—a busy scrabbling on hardwood, not far from her ear. Pre-dawn darkness, a drift of warm, weak light from the bathroom down the hall. Slowly, warily, she turns her head. The mouse halts, whiskers quivering. Less than an arm's length from her face. Letting her breath out in a thin, steady stream, Edal does what she can to soften her gaze. The mouse is unconvinced. It holds its position, flank pressed to the skirting board, fur jumping with the panic of its pulse. She knows better than to try soothing it with words; years of experience have taught her few sounds trouble the wild ear so much as human speech. A small shock, then, to herself as much as to the creature before her, when the sound escapes her lips. "Hello," she says softly, and the mouse swivels and runs. Looking up from the sink, Edal meets herself dripping in the medicine cabinet's mirrored doors. The centre seam draws a line down her nose, her unremarkable mouth. It separates her