WHAT IF DEATH IS JUST ANOTHER
PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
As she registers his presence, the mare seems almost to flinch, and for a moment Sterling wonders if he’s made a mistake: if he’s startled her, coming up so suddenly, or made her uncomfortable, drawing in so close. It occurs to him belatedly that he cannot be the first man to approach her after a dance (far from it, he is sure), and though he makes no move to touch her, though they stand in a public, crowded space, he knows the same cannot be said of all men. The image makes him tense—the thought of her, alone, in some dark alleyway, with a stranger leaning in—and he takes a careful step back, wanting to clarify that he means her no harm.
Then she turns a smile on him, frosty and beautiful, and his concern eases slightly. Her finely dished face gleams in the torchlight, the steely-brown of autumn shadows, edged now in silver, now in gold. The bells and baubles strung between her antlers chime against one another with her every tiny movement. There is, Sterling thinks, something bewitching about her: she blazes like a flame, with those scarlet antlers and that magnificent hair, and yet everything about her breathes cold, cold, cold.
“And what would a traveller know of dance?” she asks him, her words slipping like music past her lips. Her smile is almost sly, half-polite and half-reproachful. His own turns playfully pensive as he considers.
“Perhaps more than one might expect,” he says lightly. “I have seen many, many dances.” His eyes glitter, pale blue in the light of the market fires. “Do you know the snake charmers of the Sa’anpe-Vash?” he asks, remembering the way those horses had swayed to the sound of their high, reedy flutes, the desert sunlight glittering off the scales that traced their necks, their backs, their limbs. “The ice dancers of Nvodje?” They had danced with thin blades strapped to their hooves, skating in enormous synchronized patterns over the frozen lake.
But he does not mean to boast, not really, only to share that he knows a little of her world. He can tell without having to ask, can tell simply by having watched her, that the need to dance courses through her blood like a promise. “You are a lovely dancer,” he says, his teasing tone gone. He does not speak to flatter—Sterling never flatters—but rather to state what is true, plain to anyone with eyes. “I've not seen anything quite like your style before. Did you train here, or abroad?”
As they’ve talked, they’ve woven deeper into the marketplace, away from the dance stages and in among the stalls hawking refreshments. Now, Sterling pauses before a cart of teas and wines. “Will you join me for a drink?” he asks her, motioning to the vendor. “You must be parched, after a night of dancing.”
Then she turns a smile on him, frosty and beautiful, and his concern eases slightly. Her finely dished face gleams in the torchlight, the steely-brown of autumn shadows, edged now in silver, now in gold. The bells and baubles strung between her antlers chime against one another with her every tiny movement. There is, Sterling thinks, something bewitching about her: she blazes like a flame, with those scarlet antlers and that magnificent hair, and yet everything about her breathes cold, cold, cold.
“And what would a traveller know of dance?” she asks him, her words slipping like music past her lips. Her smile is almost sly, half-polite and half-reproachful. His own turns playfully pensive as he considers.
“Perhaps more than one might expect,” he says lightly. “I have seen many, many dances.” His eyes glitter, pale blue in the light of the market fires. “Do you know the snake charmers of the Sa’anpe-Vash?” he asks, remembering the way those horses had swayed to the sound of their high, reedy flutes, the desert sunlight glittering off the scales that traced their necks, their backs, their limbs. “The ice dancers of Nvodje?” They had danced with thin blades strapped to their hooves, skating in enormous synchronized patterns over the frozen lake.
But he does not mean to boast, not really, only to share that he knows a little of her world. He can tell without having to ask, can tell simply by having watched her, that the need to dance courses through her blood like a promise. “You are a lovely dancer,” he says, his teasing tone gone. He does not speak to flatter—Sterling never flatters—but rather to state what is true, plain to anyone with eyes. “I've not seen anything quite like your style before. Did you train here, or abroad?”
As they’ve talked, they’ve woven deeper into the marketplace, away from the dance stages and in among the stalls hawking refreshments. Now, Sterling pauses before a cart of teas and wines. “Will you join me for a drink?” he asks her, motioning to the vendor. “You must be parched, after a night of dancing.”
AND MAYBE GOD IS JUST A COP
THAT WE CAN FAST TALK
THAT WE CAN FAST TALK
@
