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Nothing. You sneeze— "Bless you," Gil says. How did you do it the last times? You were taught something by somebody. Names are dangerous to invoke. But faces are worse, and your nails pick at your knuckle-scrapes as you remember— are forced to remember— can't block out the voice and warm hands and the clouds and clouds of smoke, which seems now to be invading your throat. Damn it. You cough, now. Is there something <span class="mu-i">in</span> your throat? Some bolus? It's not the red thing— it's completely motionless, like a pebble or an egg. Maybe it's a lump of goo. (Lucky is <span class="mu-i">still</span> at it.) It's not painful or anything, just mildly uncomfortable. Much like the smoke.
You are remembering the first time. You said it by accident, or something like that. Was goaded into it by passive-aggressive notes and mean fake newspapers. You shouldn't miss him. You shouldn't even feel bad at all.
But you do. "<span class="mu-s">[OPEN],</span>" you say, and think maybe the bolus helped your inflection.
You don't get to think this for very long, because the door doesn't open. It was already open. It's the <span class="mu-i">walls</span> that swing open, pivoting on invisible hinges: the ceiling follows, then the sky, and the temple is briefly cheery with sunshine before the floor opens too and you drop
?
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It is Godsday, you are C.R. Fawkins, and you are disgusted with the excesses of the world. The kites crashing and bombing and tangling in one another. The stands hawking food with no business being candied. The singing-drumming-shrieking-jangling-squawking-crying of man and child and animal, and when you say 'animal' you mean brawny throngs of seagulls— any smaller birds have been scared off, crushed to death under a moving sharrabang, or candied.
Fortunately, you are not here to enjoy yourself. Sure, you're dressed in the traditional fashion, blue on blue, with touches of one color or another to signal particular affinity. (The tie on your vest is more green-blue than blue-green, putting you on Team Seagrass Bitch.) What the masses <span class="mu-i">can't</span> see is your pitch-dark heart. Haha. Kidding. Your heart's red, just like your allegiances.
You are, after all, a <span class="mu-r">Wyrm-daughter.</span> Unlike the Godsday herds, you reject the patronage and patronizing care of the Eight, those kinslayers, those snakes-in-the-grass. You hate being talked down to. With the Wyrm, you're not talked to at all— <span class="mu-i">you</span> interpret. <span class="mu-i">You</span> scheme, all by yourself. Someday It will rise from its earthy grave and rid the world of candied fish-jerky...
(3/4)
