I think that’s a plop of spangle poop. And I don’t think it’s very fair that I should have to wait until I’m eighteen to find out for myself how big that plop of poop really is.
Pahpi said I can put my argument forth once I hear the elemental songs and I’ve learned to speak them properly, but I think that’s a plop of spangle poop, too. Haedeon waited a long time and they never sang to him. And I’ve been listening really hard, every cycle, singing to the snow and the air and the ground and the flames. Nobody’s singing back but Mahmi and Pahpi at slumbertime.
Not that I mind. I don’t want to wear that silly stone, anyway. Mahmi always looks so tired, like her head’s heavy. Pahpi’s crown looks heavy too, but not in the same way. The stones on his are so pretty and shiny and make him look proud and important. The stone on Mahmi’s is so black it looks like somebody could fall straight through it.
Sometimes, I catch Mahmi trying really hard to pull her diadem off while she screams and cries and folds herself up real small. It makes my heart hurt.
I don’t think that stone is very good for Mahmi.
Last slumber, I found her outside, crying in the dark while the falling snow stuck to her hair. Her sad sounds made me cry, too.
I sang a song I’d hoped would make her feel better, but she just cried harder.
She wiped my cheeks and told me she’d be okay. That she lost something important, but that my cuddles made her feel much better.
Pahpi found us then. He picked her up and took her inside, then tucked me into my pallet, kissed me on the nose, and told me it would make sense when I’m older …
I don’t think I want to understand.
The bloated clouds crawl north in time for the aurora to peek above the eastern horizon—ten luminous silver ribbons wiggling into view, moving to their own hypnotic beat. The world comes alive with the distant screech of Moltenmaws, their scratchy yawns threatening to split the sky.
I push up from the skybridge, groaning, my legs a little stiff from disposing of Tarik’s body and lying in the snow. Yawning, I make for the north side, trekking down thirty-three levels of steep stairways until I step onto the ground level and into the already churning crowd.
The Ditch bustles with folk completing their early chores: clearing snow gathered before doors, chopping kindling, and fetching bottles of colk milk left beneath the eaves of those who can afford the run. Merchants roll by on colk-driven carts laden with tinctures, runed gadgets, and crates of exotic food, setting up shop for the dae.
A plethora of parchment larks flutter about, darting between folk and landing on outstretched hands, though some have no direction at all. Ghost larks—perhaps meant for somebody lost—that now spend their existence dancing with the fluffy sowmoths I’m feeling far too tired to chase.
“Please have jars of dust,” I murmur, jostling through the crowd.
Pausing by a store that’s yet to open, I pretend to window-shop while I check I’m not being followed, using the opportunity to ensure my veil still thoroughly conceals the lower half of my face. That there’s no bloody stains anywhere on my gown that’s cinched at my waist, the gathered bustle emphasizing my round hips.
The tight bodice makes my already full breasts almost spill from the neckline, and though that played the part last slumber, I look entirely overdressed amongst the freshly woken folk churning about the Ditch at my back. Not ideal.
I grab the tail of my veil, rearranging it so it’s draped across my bust, hiding all my perky, pale flesh.
Much better.
I weave through the crowd until I reach a north side shop tucked beneath a wind chute. Pink, powdery sunlight shoots through with a blow of fresh air, rustling the plants that dangle from the store’s eave, its name crafted on a stone plaque set amongst the stained glass window fashioned to look like a montage of Moltenmaw plumage.
I yank the door open, taking a step into the long, lofty store lined with rows of ceiling-high shelves packed to the brim with everything a Runi could possibly require: stacks of flat parchment squares with pre-drawn activation lines, small tincture jars choked by dangly labels, leather-bound books dyed an array of colors to match their painted edges. There’s an abundance of quills, jars of various etching sticks, and lumps of different ores and gemstones.
Halfway through the doorway, I pause, watching a vibrant flock of parchment larks churn about the shelves with feathers attached to their ends, looking like miniature Moltenmaws.
Every time I come, the flock has doubled in size. I’m sure of it.
“Close the door before my pets escape,” Ruse yells from the back of the shop, “or you’ll not be doing business here for the rest of your existence.”