Asterion doesn’t know how she does it – how she can attend a festival with the memory of the last one a shadow on her heart, yet still wear a smile. A true one, the kind that reaches her eyes (though he has rarely seen any other on his sister, his queen).
She is a marvelous thing, he thinks, though as he follows her his dark mouth quirks. If only he had not agreed to her terms for attending.
The bay does not share her enthusiasm. They stand now just within the grounds, near a booth buried in strands of flowers, the scent of them overwhelming even what Florentine already wears. Somewhere, he knows, is Moira, and Cyrene, and Raymond and Calliope – and it is enough. It is more than that.
“Alright, he says, giving in to her gaze on him. Though his tone is serious, though he gives a little long-suffering sigh, there is a hint of a smile in his dark eyes when they meet hers. “You can pick one thing for me to do with you.” He flicks an ear, glancing around at the flurry of activity around them – face painting, apple bobbing, a thousand things besides. His stomach flutters with nerves, with guilt, with worry.
He still finds Novus such a strange world.
“What will it be?” he asks, looking back at her, and the resignation in his voice is belied by the smile he wears.
@
if you'll be my star*
