the salt is on the briar rose,
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
Not until you deserve it, she says, and that is the first time he truly looks at her, beyond those eyes he thinks he knows, beyond the doe-soft dun skin and the last name Foster. His first reaction is to grin, but close on its heels is the thought: and what do you know of deserving anything?
Funny, how those born to riches always seemed to think they’d played a part in earning them.
Ah, but he’s in no mood for cynicism, at least not beyond what keeps him alive in fed. And he likes her well enough, and the gentle way she holds the parchment, and the smell of the fresh ink. He leans in when she offers the map up to him, his gaze curiously roving each street and alley, each neat rectangle of a shop or house. Briefly he wonders if this is more how Benvolio sees the world - in blocks and rows. Except, of course, the bat doesn’t ‘see’ much at all. “Oh,” he says offhand, the bridge of his nose almost touching hers as he finds the place they stand, and the white, unmapped space beyond, “I’m not so sure about that. They know they have their purposes.” Or else, he thinks wryly, they wouldn’t exist.
Caspian straightens when she folds the map away, nibbling an itch on his shoulder and watching a filly half a block away try to convince passersby to purchase her flowers. Ones she’d gathered for free, no doubt, possibly even from the Queen’s own gardens.
Bella’s question draws his attention back. He is well accustomed to bartering - not everyone could pay the same, after all, and she was certainly good for anything he might ask. But what to ask?
“How can I say, if I don’t know how much of it I’m spending?” He answers with a smile, an arched brow. “Speaking of time, I’m needed elsewhere -” (only his sister’s, and needed is a stretch) “how about we meet here, midday tomorrow?” Caspian taps a corner on her map where the lines end at a low-town pub. With her affirmation, he ducks his head in a mock bow. “Good day, Miss Foster,” he says, making no attempt to smooth his broad country vowels, and turns away to vanish down the busy cobblestone street.
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