THIRTY-SEVEN
We stared for a moment, then Geordie rushed to action, whipping out a notebook and pencil and quickly copying the marching lines of symbols.
‘I can’t read all of it,’ he said while he wrote. ‘Some of it seems… improvised. And untidy. But what I can make out is not a binding, exactly. I do not think the author could take control of you.’
Quincey did not look relieved. ‘But I’m the one drawing the revenants.’
‘We don’t know that, yet, only that something has been done to you. It’s something like a lens.’ Geordie’s pencil stilled, and he took a short breath. ‘I will need to see the rest of you,’ he said in a very low voice.
Quincey turned, his face twisted in suspicion and distaste.
‘If there is more,’ Geordie explained, ‘it could dramatically change the meaning of what I c
