I liked to dance. I liked to be moved by music, and it seemed to me the most natural thing in the world; swaying like a reed in the breeze, or swirling like a riptide.
The game we played was not unlike dancing. A little give, a little take. A flow, a pulse. Like blood, I suppose, but if there was any red to the scene it was forgotten. All I remember is gold and white and green. Scars and feathers and charm.
He was not wrong, about everyone deserving to be distrusted. Papa tried to teach it to me. For your safety, he said, you can’t trust anyone you don’t know. But it was a lesson that some defiant seed in me refused to learn. And even though I looked sidelong and suspicious at the golden boy, I already felt safe with him.
The problem was this: I was not very good at not being myself. This ruse I had put on, this portrayal of a girl louder, bolder, more careless than myself, it could never last. It wanted to fade, and it took a lot of energy for me to keep appearances going. To skim the surface of conversation, to banter when my natural inclination was to dive deep. But then I saw an opportunity to align my two selves: the lonely girl and the story teller’s daughter.
I snorted. “Well fine. If all you have is your tongue, you will have to pay me with a story.” I carved a delicate frown into my expression. Something disappointed. It was surely at odds with the spark in my eyes. “It better be a good one,” I said with an air of haughty expectation. “Or I’ll set my wolf on you. Unfortunately for you, he quite likes bones.”
I nudged Furfur with my leg, and with a heavy sigh he wagged his tail as if in excitement. "And to prove I'm no roadside thief, I will escort you to the court. Or wherever it is you're heading." The court proper, the night markets, the seaside, the mountains... wherever his destination in Denocte, I could guide him there with my eyes closed. Despite my young age, this was my country and I knew it like the skin on my back.
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