[P] our hearts we have sold, for diamonds and gold

[Marisol]

by sword
by salt

Marisol’s stomach is beginning to rumble, and the sound of it grows louder as she mentions dinner to the boys. Terrastella has been so chaotic that the past few days have found her almost without time to eat, and the stress is beginning to catch up to her. There is a gnawing thing making a pit between her ribs: her whole body is tense and stiff as rocks, muscles coiled, limbs aching. Though her stride is smooth and her expression pleasantly neutral, everything else is under strain. 

She is tired, tired, tired. If only there were a chance to rest. If only there were a place to stop. Mari briefly closes her eyes, then lets out a short, purposeful exhale, as if trying to dislodge a demon. Despite the height of the sun, the air is still cold; she can feel the chill arcing through her mouth, past her throat, then all the way down into her chest as they amble through the court and toward the dining halls. She blinks. Sunlight shatters through her eyelashes. Splashes onto the cobblestones, seemingly in shards.

At the mention of Ard’s painting, Mari says only, simply: “Good.” They will do what they must do to find this… snake. Whatever it takes to punish someone who deserves to be punished. (Is that playing God? Well, maybe it doesn’t matter.) It could be with the use of these wanted posters—certainly they can’t hurt—but most likely, Marisol thinks, it will come down to her and Manon in a fight of their own, tussling in the dark, predator versus predator until someone is taken captive.

Hopefully it won’t be her.

Marisol’s mouth twists at Erd’s question. Not upset, perhaps not even uncomfortable. But something about it—well, there is no satisfactory answer, especially not on such short notice. And she hardly knows. The past few days her cadets have been left to their own devices. They can’t be doing terribly, or Marisol would have heard, but she’s hardly seen them in the flurry of the past couple days besides at meetings of the whole Court.

Isn’t that irresponsible? How has she managed to screw things up already? Mari exhales abruptly; something in her lungs scrapes, or burns. “They’re fine. Life as usual. A few still looking for Prudence.” Again her mouth twists. Life as usual just means chaos, and Prudence… well, that is a problem on its own, one Marisol has been too frazzled to think about for—likely—far too long to be comfortable.  She does not even stop to think of what the twins might or might not know about it.

“Speaking.”

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