The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
—
Aster watches her brother pace through the place where a doorway stood and back again. And then again. Her bone-china face is unperturbed but her eyes are sharp, expectant. When nothing happens, when there is no movement but his noon shadow crowding beneath him and the wind moving through the grass, she blows out a long breath.
When he returns to her she is looking away, out beyond the river where the sun shines as on glass, beyond the waterfall that is still frozen, stopped by time like a bubble in amber. It is silent except for a faraway muttering, sighing, constant voice that Aster does not know is the sea; it sounds to her a little like breathing.
This doesn’t frighten her. She doesn’t know of monsters yet, either.
As Leonidas’s lips find her cheek, she nibbles absent-mindedly at his throat. Aster falls still when he speaks, and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or scoff or demand to go with him when he tells her to stay. In the end she decides to agree, and pulls away.
The little cub looks at her, as if it has understood his question (perhaps it has; what does a thing whose blood was sap and skin bark know?). Aster stares back, and each of them think what golden eyes you have.
“Teak,” she says, because that is the oldest word she can find in his head. Neither of them know it is the wood he was fashioned from, but her father might have smiled. The cat opens his mouth in a silent miao,, his tongue curling like a question mark. “Go on,” she says, as Teak bats at his sister, and when Aster looks up at Leonidas it isn’t clear whether she was speaking to one or all of them.
She smiles, and she does not say beware.
When he returns to her she is looking away, out beyond the river where the sun shines as on glass, beyond the waterfall that is still frozen, stopped by time like a bubble in amber. It is silent except for a faraway muttering, sighing, constant voice that Aster does not know is the sea; it sounds to her a little like breathing.
This doesn’t frighten her. She doesn’t know of monsters yet, either.
As Leonidas’s lips find her cheek, she nibbles absent-mindedly at his throat. Aster falls still when he speaks, and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or scoff or demand to go with him when he tells her to stay. In the end she decides to agree, and pulls away.
The little cub looks at her, as if it has understood his question (perhaps it has; what does a thing whose blood was sap and skin bark know?). Aster stares back, and each of them think what golden eyes you have.
“Teak,” she says, because that is the oldest word she can find in his head. Neither of them know it is the wood he was fashioned from, but her father might have smiled. The cat opens his mouth in a silent miao,, his tongue curling like a question mark. “Go on,” she says, as Teak bats at his sister, and when Aster looks up at Leonidas it isn’t clear whether she was speaking to one or all of them.
She smiles, and she does not say beware.
