There was something about her, set apart from the rest of the day, that made his heart ache. Maybe he thought she was lonely; Acton’s idea of a good time, even as a colt, had always been in the midst of things, swept up in a current of chaos, urging it on. Life was a rich thing, to be tasted and savored even if you were born a street rat, not a king.
He did not know her heart beat more freely here, away from the storm of feelings of those that loved her.
Acton felt a little sorry when she startled (a rare thing, coming from him), but at her recovery and answer he smiled. “Too true. I’m glad you’re not as allergic to fun.” He said it in jest, but as he spoke he did wonder – when was the last time he’d seen Raum smile? Had it been Veneror Peak, long before all the blood and trouble? Gods.
But another look at Sabine’s blue eyes and he pushed the Ghost to the back of his mind. Where Raum’s were ice chips, cool and hard, Sabine’s eyes were the bright promising blue of a spring morning, a touch of light on a jay’s wing. How strange that such similar coloring could convey such different things.
Satisfied with his blossom’s placement, he shifted his weight into a lean and felt a wry smile grow as she spoke. Acton did not follow her as she meandered beneath the lanterns, casting stained-glass colors on her skin, but his gaze did.
“And your mother’s ability to see through bull…crap,” he muttered, censoring himself just in time, but nothing about him looked irritated. Rhoswen was whip-smart and put up with very little nonsense, and Acton had always admired her for it – even the parts of him that found it endlessly frustrating.
What a dangerous, wonderful mixture little Sabine was.
“I am,” he said, and allowed himself a sigh. “Dawn does not quite suit us.” Delumine was an ill-fitting suit, too tight, too short, a constant tension across his shoulders. Here he felt like a crow among doves. And how easy it was to lump them in with him, their little band of exiles – he knew as well as his own heartbeat that Raum thought much of home, and Rhoswen’s blood ran hot as the memory of summer sun on sand.
He did not think to wonder about Sabine’s.
“Worry not, though, Sabine,” he said, and looked back toward the festival. The sounds drifted toward them like the ghost of music, the memory of voices. Faint and peaceful and pale in comparison to the rich nightly hymn of Denocte. “This won’t last forever.”
@
these violent delights have violent ends
