briarwood hall, vienda
afternoon on the 22nd of roalis, 2706
Desiderio supposed nice was subjective.
Perhaps all little girls were this strange, and he had not noticed. He did not spend much time around little girls; he did not spend much time around anybody. But she was thinking very hard about it, he thought, her small face and her large green eyes intent. She was not laughing at him, at least, for the question. She was even tugging at a bit of her hair, which was looking more and more unsettled by the minute.
He did not think Miss Bianchi, back in Caroult, would have thought being melted was very nice, even if you were being melted into the shape of a heart. He did not much like the thought of melting, for love or anything equally mystifying; he supposed that was why he would not make a very good soldier.
He was probably thinking too hard about it. As usual. “I think you are right,” he replied, scratching his chin. Only there was a bit of charcoal on his fingertips, and now there was a bit of charcoal on his face, too. He tried to wipe it away, then frowned and tried again, and he was not sure if he had gotten it.
It was all very embarrassing, all of it.
“There are a lot of stories which are not about love, which are very scary, too.” Desiderio sighed. He thought of the beggar boy and the fox, which did not make very much sense at all. Or Constanza, or the ones where princes won the hands of princesses who were barely in the stories at all, which seemed to have very little to do with love, despite ending in marriage. “So perhaps love is what makes the scary things all right.” Maybe that was what she meant by nice. If you had to be melted, he supposed being melted together was as good a way as any.
He sounded uncertain even to himself. He really did not know. He looked at her from underneath his brows, chewing at his lip and hunching his shoulders a little more, even though it made him look scrawnier and sillier, and the boys at Brunnhold made fun of him for it.
He had worried that something strange might happen, if they spent too much time together now. That was what some of the adults seemed to think, which was why they weren’t, technically, he supposed, meant to go about unchaperoned. But nobody really seemed to care that much, and nothing strange had happened yet. Certainly nothing to melt oneself over.
“Do you think it is all right if we keep on playing together?” Not that Desiderio played; but playing was a thing that you did with younger children. “If we are careful and if we promise. Not to – not to fall in love. The scary sort of love, I mean.” The stories were very nice, but Desiderio wouldn’t like very much to live in one of them. He wasn’t sure why he was asking a seven year old, but he got the feeling that if he asked an adult, the answer would just confuse him terribly.
Perhaps all little girls were this strange, and he had not noticed. He did not spend much time around little girls; he did not spend much time around anybody. But she was thinking very hard about it, he thought, her small face and her large green eyes intent. She was not laughing at him, at least, for the question. She was even tugging at a bit of her hair, which was looking more and more unsettled by the minute.
He did not think Miss Bianchi, back in Caroult, would have thought being melted was very nice, even if you were being melted into the shape of a heart. He did not much like the thought of melting, for love or anything equally mystifying; he supposed that was why he would not make a very good soldier.
He was probably thinking too hard about it. As usual. “I think you are right,” he replied, scratching his chin. Only there was a bit of charcoal on his fingertips, and now there was a bit of charcoal on his face, too. He tried to wipe it away, then frowned and tried again, and he was not sure if he had gotten it.
It was all very embarrassing, all of it.
“There are a lot of stories which are not about love, which are very scary, too.” Desiderio sighed. He thought of the beggar boy and the fox, which did not make very much sense at all. Or Constanza, or the ones where princes won the hands of princesses who were barely in the stories at all, which seemed to have very little to do with love, despite ending in marriage. “So perhaps love is what makes the scary things all right.” Maybe that was what she meant by nice. If you had to be melted, he supposed being melted together was as good a way as any.
He sounded uncertain even to himself. He really did not know. He looked at her from underneath his brows, chewing at his lip and hunching his shoulders a little more, even though it made him look scrawnier and sillier, and the boys at Brunnhold made fun of him for it.
He had worried that something strange might happen, if they spent too much time together now. That was what some of the adults seemed to think, which was why they weren’t, technically, he supposed, meant to go about unchaperoned. But nobody really seemed to care that much, and nothing strange had happened yet. Certainly nothing to melt oneself over.
“Do you think it is all right if we keep on playing together?” Not that Desiderio played; but playing was a thing that you did with younger children. “If we are careful and if we promise. Not to – not to fall in love. The scary sort of love, I mean.” The stories were very nice, but Desiderio wouldn’t like very much to live in one of them. He wasn’t sure why he was asking a seven year old, but he got the feeling that if he asked an adult, the answer would just confuse him terribly.
