Re: Cass & Mat: the Quiet Home
When she had been small and soft and formed only by her mother's cupped hands, her whispers, her memories dreamy as skeins of silk Cass had wished they could do things. Predictions felt like holding sand between her spread fingers, or holding back the tide. There was nothing manifest, no do in holding other people's futures and their pasts like a cracked cup.
Cass watched Matilda slide metaphysical fingers along the side of the orderly's mind and curl there until her fingertips were claws as cruel and sweet as any cat. The man twitched, he said what Matilda said like a puppet whose strings were jangled. Cass observed all this with the calm placidity of the heavily doped, but with the canted-head curiosity of the girl within, cupped flame still burned bright.
"Bye," she said, with amusement, as the man sloped off, hazed with Matilda's power. And it was clear then, if it hadn't been before, that Matilda did. "You really can."