Aveline's Bookstore • Deventry
Evening on the 14th of Bethas, 2720
H
e snorted. “I haven’t had a spur in m – in months,” he said, stumbling, the laughter in his voice petering out. His field didn’t shift, but something like a tickle of uncertainty went through the mona. The last he’d smoked had been in the Soots, with Nkemi, trying to remember how it’d felt to smoke four packs a day with shaky hands worn rough from factory work. Cerise hadn’t been a name in his book, then.
Was it only tekaa that called them spurs? Now he thought of it, he’d never heard a golly name them so, but he’d assumed. He should’ve said smoke, he told himself.
More than anything, he wondered that Cerise didn’t like the smell of smoke. He’d’ve guessed she herself smoked, given all the other shit she got up to in those letters that drove Diana to climbing the curtains like the miraan. He’d heard it was a popular thing, anyway, among golly bochi.
It’d been an unusual experience, to say the least – getting lost and rounding an ivy-clad corner behind Long Hall, only to find a couple of green first forms wheezing out their lungs and then scattering at the sight of him like they’d seen a ghost. Or a proper-looking dagka, which was objectively worse. He’d been in meetings half the day, so he’d sat on the steps awhile, wistful in the smell; it wasn’t just tobacco.
He’d expected her to move out of range; as he stopped, she stopped, all the way at the other end of the shelf. He thought to put Blossom back, but he’d’ve had to step back.
Interesting, she said first, and he frowned down at the book. Then, he lifted an eyebrow. “A prism,” he repeated. What the hell was a prism? She went on, and he nodded, sucking a tooth. He’d been about to protest – maybe he’d misjudged her gruesome monsters – when she turned the question back on him, he clicked his teeth audibly. He looked up, peering over the books, but all he could see was her shoulder and a bushel of curls.
“The poetry?” He shut Blossom, turning it over. The answer had drifted over casual-like, but the honesty had caught him like the edge of a riff to the throat. “They were the first thing I read – after,” he began, and then stopped; the knife prickled in his skin, for all he held the hilt now.
It’s easier, he could’ve said bitterly, than trying to follow paragraphs and paragraphs of a novel when you’re looking up every third word in a dictionary. Not hard ones, either; easy, simple words, ones you ought to know but have never seen the shape of on paper.
He stepped, very slowly, to the end of the shelf; he paid attention to the movements of her field. He never let it pass out of range, but he was never too close. “I suppose they’re a lens, too, to look at what’s real,” he went on, “though I’ve never thought about it. But it’s more like the writer is speaking to you. No – like you’re reading some of what’s in their mind, or in their soul.”
He didn’t much like it, phrased that way. He turned it over in his head, trying to think of a better way of putting it. He liked the rhythm of the words on his tongue, for one, but that sounded even sillier.
He got to the end of the shelf. If he went any further, he thought he’d turn the corner and see her; he could see glimpses of her between shelf and book. Instead, he turned and leaned back against it, crossing his arms. Out the window at one side, a blue streetlamp glowed through the pounding rain.
“You like monsters?” he asked quietly, looking up at the ceiling.
e snorted. “I haven’t had a spur in m – in months,” he said, stumbling, the laughter in his voice petering out. His field didn’t shift, but something like a tickle of uncertainty went through the mona. The last he’d smoked had been in the Soots, with Nkemi, trying to remember how it’d felt to smoke four packs a day with shaky hands worn rough from factory work. Cerise hadn’t been a name in his book, then.
Was it only tekaa that called them spurs? Now he thought of it, he’d never heard a golly name them so, but he’d assumed. He should’ve said smoke, he told himself.
More than anything, he wondered that Cerise didn’t like the smell of smoke. He’d’ve guessed she herself smoked, given all the other shit she got up to in those letters that drove Diana to climbing the curtains like the miraan. He’d heard it was a popular thing, anyway, among golly bochi.
It’d been an unusual experience, to say the least – getting lost and rounding an ivy-clad corner behind Long Hall, only to find a couple of green first forms wheezing out their lungs and then scattering at the sight of him like they’d seen a ghost. Or a proper-looking dagka, which was objectively worse. He’d been in meetings half the day, so he’d sat on the steps awhile, wistful in the smell; it wasn’t just tobacco.
He’d expected her to move out of range; as he stopped, she stopped, all the way at the other end of the shelf. He thought to put Blossom back, but he’d’ve had to step back.
Interesting, she said first, and he frowned down at the book. Then, he lifted an eyebrow. “A prism,” he repeated. What the hell was a prism? She went on, and he nodded, sucking a tooth. He’d been about to protest – maybe he’d misjudged her gruesome monsters – when she turned the question back on him, he clicked his teeth audibly. He looked up, peering over the books, but all he could see was her shoulder and a bushel of curls.
“The poetry?” He shut Blossom, turning it over. The answer had drifted over casual-like, but the honesty had caught him like the edge of a riff to the throat. “They were the first thing I read – after,” he began, and then stopped; the knife prickled in his skin, for all he held the hilt now.
It’s easier, he could’ve said bitterly, than trying to follow paragraphs and paragraphs of a novel when you’re looking up every third word in a dictionary. Not hard ones, either; easy, simple words, ones you ought to know but have never seen the shape of on paper.
He stepped, very slowly, to the end of the shelf; he paid attention to the movements of her field. He never let it pass out of range, but he was never too close. “I suppose they’re a lens, too, to look at what’s real,” he went on, “though I’ve never thought about it. But it’s more like the writer is speaking to you. No – like you’re reading some of what’s in their mind, or in their soul.”
He didn’t much like it, phrased that way. He turned it over in his head, trying to think of a better way of putting it. He liked the rhythm of the words on his tongue, for one, but that sounded even sillier.
He got to the end of the shelf. If he went any further, he thought he’d turn the corner and see her; he could see glimpses of her between shelf and book. Instead, he turned and leaned back against it, crossing his arms. Out the window at one side, a blue streetlamp glowed through the pounding rain.
“You like monsters?” he asked quietly, looking up at the ceiling.
