BEXLEY BRIAR
my carnivore heart comes out after dark -
It is like any other night on the prairie—quiet and still, no noise but the wind and Bexley’s breathing as it stirs the long, purple-tinged grasses. She lays with her head tilted up, eyes toward the soft darkness of the sky, and names the stars: Perseus, Hercules, Cassiopeia, pinpricks of light strung together with thin streams of bright silver.
This has become a new tradition—a ritual, nearly. Denocte proper is far too wild for her. People enjoy themselves far too much. In Solterra, at least, there was the impression of worthiness, in that their sun-stung inhabitants thought their wildness was the natural fault of living in a place made for savagery. The sun, the sand, it drew something out of that. But here it is all gluttony, and no suffering to balance it out; Bexley finds herself disgusted by the amount of smiling, the sound of laughter, the hedonism that runs rampant in every street.
And this is where she realizes she has become old. Since when is she one to turn away from pleasure? Since when does she refuse the pursuit of happiness?
She is old, old, old, and lonely, and the world has changed; Bexley is more than a girl now. She is quite tired. And quite grumpy.
Something flits overhead, a black cloud blocking out a swatch of bright, pale stars. Bex blinks. It is a wide swoop of wings, a pattern of smooth-edged feathers on a body which comes down in circles, in tightening spirals, until a long, dark leg comes to rest on the dirt—then another, a third and a fourth, and a tall, neat silhouette is walking toward her, shifting the grasses. She watches and watches, eyes narrowing in unbridled suspicion. Still the shadow approaches; finally Bexley climbs to her feet to scrutinize the stranger.
It’s—
“Raglan?” Bexley’s voice is sharp with incredulity—she stares at him in such strong surprise she can hardly blink, can hardly move, stricken into place like a statue poured from the feet up.
How long has it been? And if Raglan is here—
What else might show up?
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