Isabella Foster
I like a look of agony
because I know it's true
Y
ou seem surprised by my question,” I comment to her. My face remains impassive as I scan the planes of her own, looking for any answers int he furrow of her brow, the the set of her lips. I should take it back, should not have commented on the way she stares, but I have never been particularly attuned to gentler emotions. How can I be when there sits in my eyes both steel and stone? It was not just my way to be hard, but my birthright. We blink at the same time.
I missed it, but we did.
“I don’t doubt it,” I say with what would be laughter from anyone else, but from me it is just a rush of air from my lungs, unformed and lacking. “Everyone speaks of your intelligence, Commander, and your keen eye, your direct hand in leadership,” I say to her. Compliments they should be, but from myself they are just facts, things I have learned in my studies, heard from my instructor in the library. They speak highly of Marisol, as highly of her as they do Florentine.
Fosters love their secrets, as any family does, but ours are so much harder to reach. The De Clare’s so announce their secrets with their restricted access, their hushed voices, but Fosters we let them all into our libraries, watch them as they fumble through papers, help them find what they are looking for, only so we know what information is being sought, what questions are being asked. A Foster would always be the first to know of anything that happens in Dusk Court. And it would all be under the guise of a foe smile and one hand helping, while the other narrates the story in a journal with a lock. “At least you know they are safe,” I say, as if that would be any help.
I catch something in her eye, and it looks all too familiar. I suck in a breath of air, trying sort where I have seen it before. “Commander, I wanted to ask—.” And then my mother is in the corner of my eye. She does not shout to me (would never shout across the room for me or any of my other siblings. How barbaric!) “I am sorry, it would seem our time is cut short,” I say apologetically, or try at least. I was not so much sorry as I was disappointed. It is with the commander, of all people, that for the first time I have spoken so candidly. “Enjoy the rest of the party,” I say as I depart.
picture colored by Elidhu
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