(no subject)
A middle-aged man walked across the road, pausing to glower steadily at the big, shining car - mine - that had come to a reluctant halt when he stepped off the curb. He was heavy-set, dignified, his skin nut-brown, his head shaved smooth. The gray shadow of hair over brown scalp, I remember that, the way even that shadow was smooth and reflected the sunshine, and the same shadow on his upper lip and chin, not stubbled, just shadowed with the memory of hair. Because of the bunched skin between his eyebrows, he looked angry, yes, and also because the nostrils of his flat nose were flared, and because his dark eyes were so deep-set and the whites of them so white, like he was crazy, and because his mouth was wide and the corners were down-turned. It was odd, you know, to see such an angry face over the stark edges of his white collar, over his black sweatervest, his beige slacks, his polished black shoes that had no laces or buttons that I could see. He was holding a styrofoam cup of coffee out in front of him, stiffly, but not like a man unused to holding coffee. At least, I didn't think he held it like a man unused to holding coffee. There was no reason for it, that was just my first thought, seeing his square right hand wrapped around styrofoam.
At nine, Alec was a thin, cruel boy with a scientific fascination in the world around him, which mostly took the form of dismantling it, one frog or fly or servant girl at a time. He wasn't malicious, particularly. He did not bully and he was often gentle, though cold. But he committed small and precise crimes - to educate himself, he said. And he was his father's son, for all that he had inherited his mother's hair, his mother's grey eyes, his mother's wintry skin. You could see it in his face, the born-in charming arrogance of his sharp features.
Yes, that was the General's son.
He grew to be a thoughtful young man with a curiously flat face that offered nothing. He smiled often. He had clever hands. He avoided courtly pastimes and had a way of talking that unnerved his father's associates, although his father approved of it, quietly. There was no gossip about Alec, very little was even said openly: redheaded but no spitfire, competent, not very lively but obviously headed for great things. An enigma with nothing to hide.
I was ambling down the market lanes, minding my own business, kicking aside a few grubby village kids when they got in the way, when one of them bowled right into my knees.
To no one's great surprise but mine, I fell flat on my face in a humorous fashion. The girl had darted out of the way, though not quickly enough to avoid my outstretched hand. I dragged her up as I stood and lifted her off her feet until she was dangling a few feet in the air, and looking rather cheerful about it.
She was sun-browned and white-blonde, an odd combination to my lowlander's eyes. Her pale hair radiated out from her dark face like dandelion fluff. It might have been endearing had she not just knocked me over and gotten grit in my chain-mail, never a pleasant experience. I've never been good at ages, but she was small and slightly underfed and boyish: I thought maybe ten or so. Something around there. Sweet, in a lopsided way, with large dark brown eyes, one a little larger than the other, which was unsettling but common enough.
That was when I sniffed, out of habit. And reeled.
The brat stank of witchcraft.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding with me," I said, to no one in particular. No one in particular did not answer.
I sighed, and slung her over my shoulder. It was time to see the damn crone. Again.
At nine, Alec was a thin, cruel boy with a scientific fascination in the world around him, which mostly took the form of dismantling it, one frog or fly or servant girl at a time. He wasn't malicious, particularly. He did not bully and he was often gentle, though cold. But he committed small and precise crimes - to educate himself, he said. And he was his father's son, for all that he had inherited his mother's hair, his mother's grey eyes, his mother's wintry skin. You could see it in his face, the born-in charming arrogance of his sharp features.
Yes, that was the General's son.
He grew to be a thoughtful young man with a curiously flat face that offered nothing. He smiled often. He had clever hands. He avoided courtly pastimes and had a way of talking that unnerved his father's associates, although his father approved of it, quietly. There was no gossip about Alec, very little was even said openly: redheaded but no spitfire, competent, not very lively but obviously headed for great things. An enigma with nothing to hide.
I was ambling down the market lanes, minding my own business, kicking aside a few grubby village kids when they got in the way, when one of them bowled right into my knees.
To no one's great surprise but mine, I fell flat on my face in a humorous fashion. The girl had darted out of the way, though not quickly enough to avoid my outstretched hand. I dragged her up as I stood and lifted her off her feet until she was dangling a few feet in the air, and looking rather cheerful about it.
She was sun-browned and white-blonde, an odd combination to my lowlander's eyes. Her pale hair radiated out from her dark face like dandelion fluff. It might have been endearing had she not just knocked me over and gotten grit in my chain-mail, never a pleasant experience. I've never been good at ages, but she was small and slightly underfed and boyish: I thought maybe ten or so. Something around there. Sweet, in a lopsided way, with large dark brown eyes, one a little larger than the other, which was unsettling but common enough.
That was when I sniffed, out of habit. And reeled.
The brat stank of witchcraft.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding with me," I said, to no one in particular. No one in particular did not answer.
I sighed, and slung her over my shoulder. It was time to see the damn crone. Again.