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.
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.
- Shows affection by
- quality time
- In conflict
- goes quiet
- 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
in The Falconer — Edie, the One Who Flies the Hawk at Dusk
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.
- Shows affection by
- quality time
- In conflict
- goes quiet
- 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
