overdosed on confidence
Through the artfully wrought net of the iron gate, Andras is split into parts: a dark eye, a white lip, a stubbornly hunching shoulder. I watch each piece with the same religious attention. A raised brow. The twitch of his mouth, which carries the same startling, ugly intensity as any spoken threat.
If I am cowardly, if I am a bastard, or selfish, or traitorous, then at least I am still patient. This has never been a problem for me, the waiting of it. I am watching and watching and watching his silence, the slow cast of doubt over his face, watching the stillness of the world uncut by noise as we both wait in stubborn silence for the other to crack first.
I think more of me is snake than anyone wants to admit.
I step back to let the gate swing open. Overhead the sun is high in a cloudless sky; it turns the world to gauzy gold and casts glitter on every piece of metal in here. Some part of me is curious what he thinks, but I would not go so far as to call it worried, because I know it is not this house that will make or break his opinion of me. (I am not worried because I know, no matter what I do, I am in charge. He would not fight if I decided I would like to crush him.)
But still something in me is pleased at the way he looks around, kind of reverent. I am not surprised; it is quite different from the hovels that those Dawn people call homes. The walls are high, smooth, white marble, and underfoot the patio is covered in tiles which are patterned with increasingly intricate swirls and dips of deep-red and gold. There are plants everywhere, something I thought would let the other houses know we are not struggling—how else could we afford to waste so much water on that kind of luxury? Snake plants with glossy dark-green leaves, carefully trimmed bushes of blue and purple flowers, rose-tinged prickly pear leaves. My room is worse, almost. I don’t know why I care about them at all.
A mild blue spark peels off the Warden’s hip as he joins me in the courtyard, and for a brief moment I wonder, if I touched it, how bad the repercussions would be. Show me who you are, he says then, as if he has the right to ask me for anything at all. I squint, partially to avoid the sharp rods of sunlight as they come down, partially in incredulity. But he’s not joking.
I snort. I want to say something, something cutting—you came all the way here for that?—but I know, if I did try to say something, it would come out: you already know who I am?
So I swallow my pride, which tastes like vitriol, which tastes like vinegar. I snap my tail lightly against the leg of his which stands closest to me and say in a tone of resigned boredom: “Fine. Drink first.”
The servants see me host guests often, but they never seem to stop caring about who I bring, and where, and why; they watch curiously, with sly, narrowed eyes, as I lead the Warden through the glimmering courtyard and toward the mansion.
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