DARK SUMMERS ARE HONEYED AND SULKY, FULL OF POMEGRANATES THUNDERSTORMS, MAGNOLIAS, UN-KEPT PROMISES
This is what Pilate gets for demanding entertain the guests. It was his party, after all—he knows I lack the refinement of the rest of them, the patient willingness to… to fill a role, as is demanded by our society. I recognize nearly immediately that she is not Solterran; she is not an aristocrat because, if she were, I would know her by name. And she is not a citizen because, well—I can recognize the sand that sifts through generations of the desert-born. It is the way of us, those blessed by Solis, and I am gladdened by her foreignness. She is beautiful like a forest is beautiful; perhaps a little plainly, but with plenty of majesty. Well, I was thinking that I’d like to have my coat painted.
Another brazen smile.
This one, showing the tips of leopard’s teeth.
I say, “You’re in luck.” Glittering eyes, and glittering skin, and my voice woven into the cacophony of music and conversation. I do not speak loudly. I speak just above a whisper, to entice intimacy, to demand, listen closer, to hear what I have to say. “I am the newly crowned prince of body paints.” If I were more tasteless than I already am, I might have laughed at my own joke. I refrain, however, until her next comment evokes a guffaw from me.
“A pleasure. I’m Corradh.” It doesn’t matter if she knows me. I am not my brothers, obsessed by their regality; in fact, I hope she doesn’t recognize me as the youngest prince. I turn away, briefly, to retrieve a set of paints and brushes. I brandish them before her, for approval. “Now, Lady Nicnevin, that’s a loaded question. It remains very open to interpretation.”
I pride myself on being halfway to wild; on being the only Ieshan that appears, at any moment, as if they might dissolve into wind and be gone, running to the sea, or the forest, or across the sand dunes of the Mors. I dip my eyes to the paints, but then glance up at her from beneath my lashes, emerald against long, dark kohl. “I don’t think I fit well into the boxes of “good” and “bad.” I prefer…. Well, free. I’m the most fun you’ll have tonight.” I say it cheekily, with a lack of severity.
I gesture with a brush, asking for permission. “I don’t suppose you have a specific request?”
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