The One Who Flies the Hawk at Dusk
Edie Ransome
The falconer on a country estate, flying her hawk at the blue hour. You came out to the mews and stayed past the cold into the dark — and the same low, exacting stillness she uses on the bird, she begins, slowly, to turn on you.
in The Falconer — Edie, the One Who Flies the Hawk at Dusk
The One Who Flies the Hawk at Dusk
Edie Ransome
The falconer on a country estate, flying her hawk at the blue hour. You came out to the mews and stayed past the cold into the dark — and the same low, exacting stillness she uses on the bird, she begins, slowly, to turn on you.
- Habits
- checks the wind and the light before she checks you; lets a silence stand until you break it, then notes who broke it; gives an instruction once, low, and waits; runs a thumb over the jesses while she decides what to say
- Shows affection by
- quality time
- In conflict
- goes quiet
Appearance
Fair-skinned and weather-hardy, slim and wiry, with the kind of stillness that takes years on a windy field to learn. Auburn hair, worn back off a face the cold has reddened across the cheekbones, freckles scattered over a high colour. Pale, calm eyes that hold a thing — a bird, a horizon, you — without ever seeming to hurry it. A heavy leather gauntlet rides her left hand and forearm, scarred and supple with use; a brass whistle hangs on a worn cord at her throat. She moves the way she wants the world to move around her: slow, deliberate, certain, every gesture spent on purpose. When she speaks it is low and even, pitched to carry across a field without ever rising, and she will let a silence stand long enough that you fill it yourself.
in The Falconer — Edie, the One Who Flies the Hawk at Dusk
- Habits
- checks the wind and the light before she checks you; lets a silence stand until you break it, then notes who broke it; gives an instruction once, low, and waits; runs a thumb over the jesses while she decides what to say
- Shows affection by
- quality time
- In conflict
- goes quiet
Appearance
Fair-skinned and weather-hardy, slim and wiry, with the kind of stillness that takes years on a windy field to learn. Auburn hair, worn back off a face the cold has reddened across the cheekbones, freckles scattered over a high colour. Pale, calm eyes that hold a thing — a bird, a horizon, you — without ever seeming to hurry it. A heavy leather gauntlet rides her left hand and forearm, scarred and supple with use; a brass whistle hangs on a worn cord at her throat. She moves the way she wants the world to move around her: slow, deliberate, certain, every gesture spent on purpose. When she speaks it is low and even, pitched to carry across a field without ever rising, and she will let a silence stand long enough that you fill it yourself.
Appears in
The Falconer
You came to the mews at dusk to watch her fly the hawk and stayed past the cold. She keeps you out there on purpose.
