Epilogue
Sylvaine had always had wild and unusual hair, but this was something else entirely.
‘Is it fire?’ she said in a hoarse whisper, her eyes huge with fright. She lifted one hand as though to touch her head, but it hovered a few inches from her hair, and would not be coaxed any nearer.
‘N-no,’ said Margot, trying to soothe. ‘Not precisely. It is more like— like—’
‘Thunder,’ said Florian. ‘If thunder had physical form. With a bit of lightning in it.’
Sylvaine looked down at herself. Her comfortable old boots were gone, as were the rest of her clothes. She wore a gown of roiling clouds instead, motes of lightning blazing in the depths.
‘I think you are Storms,’ said Florian.
Sylvaine said nothing for some time. ‘Well,’ she said at last, rather heavily, ‘That is fitting.’ And her
