and pluck til time and times are done
the silver apples of the moon
the golden apples of the sun
the silver apples of the moon
the golden apples of the sun
O
h she says, and the word is like a puff of dandelion scattered to seed; one bit of it is torn away by the wind, and one drifts down to water like a seagull’s downy feather, and one little piece or sound or sigh is tucked down between Aster’s newborn feathers. She wants to close her eyes, she wants to watch, as the little wild unicorn lips at one as idly as Leonidas might. Instead she only stares out at the dark sky and darker sea and waits to see another image marked out in salt-spray. There is something different about the way Avesta’s breath tickles on her skin. When the girl says she has a sister it is Aster’s turn to part her lips and say “Oh. It is a little sound that means then you understand, and the same thing is said in her eyes when she turns to look at the unicorn. Avesta’s eyes are so near the color of the storm behind her that Aster almost looks back again to wonder whether one did not steal from the other.
But a part of her is too caught by how she wishes the unicorn did not already belong to somebody. Even a sister.
It is the howl of a wolf that makes her look away, not in fear but in curiosity, the way a raven or a fox might. She notices that Avesta does not look, nor so much as flick an ear when another, lower, larger roar rolls like and unlike the thunder and the waves.
Aster says nothing to the unicorn’s offer. But when the girl turns and races up the beach and the dark rocks, dancing over the foam and fallen logs, she follows. And it is answer enough.
@Avesta <3
