longer.blue

Before we begin regularly posting, a recap.... Part 1 of 8 The Skye Sisters Saga with Raine Skye (@@romanticraine.bsky.social) and Billie Skye (@billieskye.bsky.social) Billie (@billieskye.bsky.social) I step off the Falcon 7X at Toulon–Hyères, the scent of salt air and hot tarmac chasing me down the runway. The heat still clings to my skin from the coast, from the sun-warmed terraces of Saint-Tropez where I’d left Etienne, all posture and charm, promising to call after the judging panels wrapped. No goodbyes, not really, just a kiss at the car, the press of his hand at the small of my back, and then I was gone. He has obligations. So do I. The Air France lounge at Charles de Gaulle isn’t made for sentiment. It’s all brushed chrome, hushed attendants, and a playlist that can’t quite decide if it wants to be jazz or silence. I sip espresso and pretend I’m interested in the messages I haven’t opened. San Francisco awaits. The gallery, the calls, the half-finished shipment paperwork I never meant to ignore. My gate is announced, but I’m not listening. Not really. It’s the flicker, Heathrow, blinking on the departure board like a glitch. Or a dare. I stand, smooth the hem of my linen dress, and walk past my own gate. No hesitation, not outwardly. Inside, it’s already decided. I don’t book a new ticket. I let the staff at the British Airways desk handle it. They’re trained for whims, for women who change cities like earrings. The next flight to Heathrow is boarding soon, and my name glides onto the list like it was always meant to be there. When I step off at Heathrow, the sky is the color of slate and feels heavier than it should. There’s something in the air, wet concrete and old stone, the kind of damp that knows how to keep secrets. I tell myself I’ll visit friends, maybe just for a night, maybe take a walk in Notting Hill and remember why I ever came here in the first place. For half a second, I think about texting Raine. Letting her know I’ve rerouted, that I’m not going back to San Francisco just yet. But I don’t. I couldn’t explain it anyway, not when I don’t even know where I’m going. Only that it isn’t home. A whisper of impulse pushes me toward the shuttle to Paddington. York is a few hours north by rail, and I don’t know what I’m chasing, only that it doesn’t live in London anymore. Something older. Colder. The kind of thing that hums under your skin before you’ve even arrived. The train slides into York under a sky like bruised silk, thick with the promise of rain. I step onto the platform, heels clicking softly against old stone, the kind worn smooth by centuries of stories nobody ever really told the truth about. York doesn’t greet you, it watches. From behind crooked windows and crumbling chimneys, through the slit eyes of alleyways too narrow for the modern world. I pull my coat tighter, more for show than warmth, and follow the path out of the station, past the first breath of tourists and day trippers. I keep walking until the buzz dulls and the streets start to change. Less polished. Less performative. There’s a dampness here that doesn’t come from weather, and the fog doesn’t quite roll… it curls, like fingers just out of sight. There’s an inn I spotted on the train ride in. Tucked beneath the eaves of a sloping Tudor roof, ivy half-swallowing the sign. I didn’t plan to stay. But York wasn’t in the plan either. None of this was. The room they give me is on the top floor. No lift, of course. The hallway is too narrow, the wallpaper a shade of wilted rose, the kind that remembers grief. I drop my bag and stand at the window for a moment, watching the street below. There’s something about the cobblestones and the cathedral spires in the distance that prick at something old. Something buried. I should feel out of place here. But I don’t. And that’s the part that bothers me most. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Raine (@romanticraine.bsky.social) ***The Trail Leads to Unexpected Places*** **The next chapter continues with @(billieskye.bsky.social)** *Every lead I had chased down in the Gulf Coast ended up to be complete mushrooms…pointless and fruitless…except one scrap of information. The tiniest little note that had been discarded years ago had somehow found its way to my hands. How I still wasn’t sure. And it told me that none of what I was searching for would be found here in the states. Yes, our mother had been here, but beyond creating a back story to take with her to Stanford, there was no more information to be found. Nothing made sense anymore…Did my father know she was a selkie? Clearly my grandfather had and had actively worked with her in hiding it. Did anyone know the part of me that was selkie? And how had it stayed hidden all these years? And why now was someone trying to silence me? The answers had to be out there. And I had to find them. For my own sanity and my own safety, but also the safety of. So much more of what she had been through both made sense and left me with more questions, but I had to tread lightly, carefully or she would bolt completely. Right now, she was safe in San Francisco, working at Renault’s. I had spent the most peaceful hours in months in the air over the Atlantic in British Airways first class suites. I had rented a car at Heathrow and headed north, far north, to the ancient city of York, following the crumbs the scrap of paper I’d found in Alabama had given me. I’d worry about accommodations when I got there…after I downed more than few pints to soothe the rough edges. And at the moment the edges were more than rough…they were frayed and near snapping. For my sake and, though she was thousands of miles away and oblivious, for the sake of my baby sister as well.~ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Billie I don’t turn the lights on. The glow from the streetlamps below is enough, all sodium gold and warped through old glass. I lean my shoulder into the window frame, arms crossed loosely over the front of my dress, the room behind me still carrying the scent of travel, leather, perfume, faint electricity from the adapter blinking uselessly at the wall. I should unpack. I should sleep. I should do a lot of things. Instead, I stand there and watch. It isn’t anything obvious. Not movement. Not even sound. Just the shape of the street, the hush of the fog. A curtain shifting behind a shop window when there’s no one left to close it. The echo of footsteps that don’t quite match the rhythm of the people who pass. Not eerie. Not yet. Just…off. Like the air’s changed hands recently. And then it hits me. Not like memory. More like scent, faint, familiar, and just out of reach. That same strange pang I get whenever Raine’s been in a room just moments before me. Not perfume. Not presence. Just the echo of her choices, still hanging in the air. Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe it’s the reason I don’t feel like a stranger here. Like I’ve walked into a story that hasn’t decided whether or not it wants me in it. I finally step back from the window, peel off the coat I never needed, and toss it across the back of a faded chair. Outside, the city exhales like it’s been holding its breath too long. And somewhere beneath it all, so do I. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Raine **In the Wee, Small Hours of the Morning*** *Featuring Billie Skye* **I’d found my way back to my suite in the wee hours of the morning. The sun had already begun to rise, as it did at exhaustive hours this far north, but sleep was a rare luxury for me on a good day, so the hours were not missed. A little corner coffee shop and bakery in the Shambles was just opening, the smell of baked goods filling the street. In I wandered, procuring the largest, strongest coffee they could make, along with pain au chocolate and a fresh baked sausage roll. The sunshine warmed the little nooks and crannies of the ancient streets as I found my way back to Guy Fawkes, climbing the creaking, crooked stairs to my suite. I dropped down on the overstuffed leather couch, sipping my coffee and eating my treats. My phone lay on the coffee table in front of me, long overdue for a charge, not that I needed it. I was long past doom scrolling on it and it had been months since anyone had tried to contact me. The last conversation I’d had with @billieskye.bsky.social, she had been giddily happy in France with her new love, and then she had gone silent. Past experience told me she was either completely and blissfully lost in this new experience…or it had ended and she had hidden herself away somewhere. If I pushed she would withdraw further and I didn’t want that. What was I to say to her anyway? The further she was from me and all this, the safer she’d be. She might be grown, but she was still my responsibility. I popped the last bite of pastry into my mouth and stood, winding through the convoluted design of the room to the tiny bathroom which, thankfully, held a huge soaking tub right in front of the leaded glass windows. I turned the water on as hot as it would go, pouring in a large amount of the bath salts on the shelf next to it. Stripping down, I stepped into the near scalding water, sighing deeply as I sank down into it, the water up to my chin. My eyes closed for a moment and I could see the whole city in my mind, in a different time. Why had I been drawn here in the first place? Why now? What was York’s connection to our family’s story? To my mother’s past? To my own story? I sank down completely beneath the water, staying there for an inordinate amount of time, not even missing that I wasn’t remotely breathless when I emerged, my head simply falling back against the smooth, worn metal of the tub, lost in the thoughts that still made no sense to me.* +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++