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December 28 - December 30, 2024
“Heresy,” he said, voice hoarse from shouting. “Evil!” “Melodrama.” Lore’s lips felt numb, and so did the rest of her.
It takes a person of a very… specific… temperament to make it as one of the Presque Mort.” She gave him a beatific smile. “And I’m too pretty.”
“Too mean to charge for my company, too clumsy for barkeeping, and I’m a terrible cook. That rules out most gainful employment.” She said it pleasantly enough, an answer that gave away nothing important.
Lore hastily braided her hair in a crown around her brow, the fanciest hairstyle she knew how to do, and pushed open her door with a sarcastic flourish. “Behold, a lady.” “Close enough, at least,” Anton said drily.
“So. You have one eye.” “Astute observation.” “How badly did it hurt?” His fingers lightly touched the patch again. “Bad,” he said, after a stretch of quiet. Then, low and vehement, “Really fucking bad.”
“Good night, Mort.” “Good night, heretic.”
Ah, the justice system.” Bastian’s snort became a full laugh. “It’s certainly a system. Unsure if justice has much to do with it.”
“I have been told I possess magic fingers, but the context wasn’t anything holy.”
“If it’s any consolation,” she said, sitting down next to him, “I would tell you how it worked if I knew.” “If you happen to figure it out anytime soon, that would be most excellent.” “Noted.”
“Are you so accustomed to being used that you don’t realize when it’s happening, as long as it’s done kindly?”
What’s the difference between a poison runner and a god? If you pray, the poison runner might hear you. —Overheard in an Caldienan tavern, 306 AGF
“See, had you not just gone through something rather traumatic, I’d be making an off-color joke about that. As it is, I will let it lie. Please admire my restraint.”
too, was eager to leave questions of care and knowing. “Some of the people I like kissing live in the cloisters.” “Bleeding God.” “Not Him.”
The door creaked open. Malcolm cocked his head curiously. “Gabe? Didn’t expect to see you here.” “We have some questions,” Lore said, trying not to sound as out of breath as she felt. “Questions that will probably involve a lot of religious theory and other technically heretical pursuits,” Gabe grumbled. The head librarian grinned. “Then you, my friends, have come to the right place.”
“A map to my rooms.” “Not exactly the most opportune time for a proposition, but I respect the effort.”
“There’s more where this came from,” he said to Alie, keeping his eyes on Lore. “If my sweets haven’t had enough sweets.” Alie groaned. “Please, not the puns.” “Give me a moment, let me workshop something with buns.” “I would truly rather perish.” Alie grinned, dark-green eyes sparkling.
Bastian stood so the four women could have the chairs—“I will lean fetchingly against the wall instead, and if any of you feel the sudden inspiration to paint me, I won’t even charge a modeling fee”—
A moment, then Gabe sighed, as if finally resigning himself to what was about to happen. “Aim for the kneecaps.” “Ah, yes.” Bastian tied off the linen on her hands. “The kneecaps are the eyes of the legs.”
“Stay close to the wall. There’s a long pool in the middle of the floor all the way down this hall.” “Who thought that was a good idea?” “Some ancestor of mine with too much money and too little taste. So really, it could’ve been any of them.”
“Magic is all you, unfortunately.” He swallowed, narrowing his eyes at the wall. “Is it safe?” “Absolutely not.” “Well, then.” Bastian stepped behind her, like he could offer some support. “I’ve got your back. Try not to die.”
