THEY STOOD UP STRAIGHT AND PURE ON THE STALK, GRIPPING THE DARK LIKE PROPHETS
AND HOWLING COLOSSAL INTIMACIES
FROM THE BACK OF THEIR FUSED THROATS
AND HOWLING COLOSSAL INTIMACIES
FROM THE BACK OF THEIR FUSED THROATS
❀
Oh, he knows her. Sometimes Bexley forgets that she is someone here — that she has made a name for herself, that more often than not, her introductions are useless, for even strangers know her.
Or think they know her. Pretty regent, girl with the scar. Solterra’s golden girl. (Not anymore!) Anyway, that doesn’t matter; they see only the celebrity side of her that goes smiling from court to court, singing the praises of Solis and acting as though everything is fine, dead girl glowing while she walks, doing what she’s supposed to do. But Bexley is not any of that. Not anymore. Solterra’s golden girl does not belong in Solterra anymore, and she is no regent, only a disaster. Everything has changed.
Except her scar, the defining marker of a life well lived. And that is all they would ever need to recognize her.
She cannot know that August belongs in Denocte or knows of Acton. Perhaps it is better that way — perhaps, if she knew, she would want to ask questions. She would want to know. (Did you see him, before he died? Did you talk to him? Who took his things, and his body, I want them back —) Oh, if she knew this would all be so different, she would not see him at all, simply an open doorway in the shape of him. But she does not know. Cannot know. And so when she looks at him she only smiles, heart caught on the silver-blonde of his hair and the ring in his nose.
“Don’t discredit yourself,” she drawls. “I’m sure you can find a way to be interesting.” Her eyes are unmoving from his. He is interesting already, but then he knows that, they both do. He is only playing coy (which she can appreciate). It is nothing that can be denied. They have set a game in motion, and oh, Bexley does not like to lose.
She snorts at his next quip, somewhat irritated, mostly amused. The ferns split around him. (She tries not to read too much into the way he moves toward her — soft and slick like some strange, pretty snake.) Bexley watches and watches and watches: the dull shine of his skin in the sun against the green of the island, the waves of his hair, and — huh — the dark burnish of a tattoo saddling the muscle of his shoulder. Her eyes narrow as she focuses in on it. A cross? A set of scales? No, a beetle.
Strange.
No matter. Bexley tilts her head to the side, and a shower of golden sparks sloughs from her mane. “You have no idea how much I hear that.” A little smirk pulls at her lips. For a moment she stands quietly, looking over him, as if she is not quite sure what to say — but Bexley has never gone speechless for long, and today will be no different. “Do I get your name, or do I have to ask the birds for it?”
Still they twitter overhead, but Bexley can almost block them out now.
