[attr="class","stappbody2"]

[attr="class","stappbody3"]


childhood is not a number; not from time of birth to a certain age; it is the kingdom where nobody dies. white towers, white snow, white statues, black shadows and black trees. it is pure, simple, she can trace the lines of a palm identical to her own and recite the measures of a song she's heard their mother sing, in full confidence that a voice will echo her own.[break][break]

and then it is taken. the kingdom turns to dust. [break][break]



light flickers between her fingers. but it is not fire, it is not warmth. it is not enough. his body is cold.[break][break]

she screams, and there is no reply.[break][break]

[break][break]

then, she is drowning.[break][break]

she can count her ribs. she doesn't know how she survives. she dismantles the songs of childhood -- they are beggar songs now -- she sees blood. she doesn't touch it. she never does / she never has to / her hands are not red.[break][break]

but there is still something missing. there will always be something missing.[break][break]

he leaves footsteps in the dust. kasimir's presence grows more scarce.[break][break]

[break][break]

but, but, there is a roof over her head. she isn't hungry. she can breathe.[break][break]

paper-thin princess, a life hanging like a garment in the dark. she sees a dead monarch in a quart mason jar, and thinks something of butterflies and tidal waves, and flecks of sand dancing in the air. light paints the dust motes golden, and for a moment she pretends they are stars. she blinks; they are gone, spiralled down to the earth. how fragile it is.[break][break]

and then she is off, stirring the dust with her feet, because she's just heard the front door slide shut and knows that kasimir is back. she embraces her brother and doesn't think about why he keeps his hands behind his back. out of sight, out of mind.[break][break]

[break][break]

fifteen, sixteen, and kasimir misses her birthday, or rather, he is late; but she can't blame him, she knows he is busy. ( this is what guerra tells her, then xuan jin, a glint in his eye she perceives as pride, and she believes him. ) he is late, with shadows under his eyes and she wishes he could tell her why.[break][break]

but, knowing him, he'll brush it off again, in that way of his. she introduces him to the silvertongue coven instead, with pale piano-player fingers that barely wrap around his wrist, too busy looking forward and pointing out what few faces she's made herself acquainted with to notice the death-rattle of his every breath.[break][break]

perhaps she has only gotten used to it.[break][break]

[break][break]

kasimir does not miss her next birthday. nor the next. she can't tell if he's happier in silvertongue; she knows he was not guerra's biggest fan; an old question catches in her throat, why, but he won't answer. she wonders if words get stuck in his throat too.[break][break]

they are out on a picnic, a pocket of his spare time; he's been baking more and more and she's not really sure why. silence lapses; comfortable silence. she cannot stare at the sun for too long, and redirects her gaze to the water's edge.[break][break]

submerged shafts of sunlight, like spun glass; move themselves with spotlight swiftness into the coral, into the waves -- in and out, illuminating the turquoise sea. come sunset and, for a breath, both sun and stars shine on the mirror-of-god sea.[break][break]

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