Another batch
When summer comes, they sit in the gardens together. Mickle's hands are rough, the nails blunt and bitten, and her mother clucks over them until she scowls, pulling away. Then, ashamed, she raids the flowerbeds and weaves a red-and-gold garland as a peace offering. Caroline cannot help but laugh.
* * *
He was standing in the street, wrestling with the front door which was inclined to warp and stick in any sort of wet weather, when he caught a flash of red in the corner of his eye. He turned, and Zara fell into his arms. Her face was damp.
She clung to him for a minute or two before she cursed him and splashed on.
* * *
There are a very few people who can outmaneuver Florian. He likes her for being one of them.
* * *
Giddy idealists that they are, they all tend to pause blankly after Keller's more acidic remarks. Only the blonde girl laughs, and he's not sure whether she's too simple to understand, or too clever to be confused.
* * *
On the worst days Florian thinks he might have done better to lodge further from the river. The rest of the time, he trusts, at least, in Justin's ambitions: when he goes, he will not go quietly.
* * *
One is fire, with a smile that sears like sunshine; the other is ice, his eyes the lucid blue of a winter sky. Their quarrels are sudden and violent, their reconciliations unspoken. They could be brothers; perhaps they would say that they are.
* * *
"You're the one," Constantine protests, breathlessly, "who's always lecturing about tempering justice with mercy."
Combeferre grins down at him. "And vice versa. Moderation, you know."
The king yelps, and seizes a pillow to defend himself.
* * *
He was standing in the street, wrestling with the front door which was inclined to warp and stick in any sort of wet weather, when he caught a flash of red in the corner of his eye. He turned, and Zara fell into his arms. Her face was damp.
She clung to him for a minute or two before she cursed him and splashed on.
* * *
There are a very few people who can outmaneuver Florian. He likes her for being one of them.
* * *
Giddy idealists that they are, they all tend to pause blankly after Keller's more acidic remarks. Only the blonde girl laughs, and he's not sure whether she's too simple to understand, or too clever to be confused.
* * *
On the worst days Florian thinks he might have done better to lodge further from the river. The rest of the time, he trusts, at least, in Justin's ambitions: when he goes, he will not go quietly.
* * *
One is fire, with a smile that sears like sunshine; the other is ice, his eyes the lucid blue of a winter sky. Their quarrels are sudden and violent, their reconciliations unspoken. They could be brothers; perhaps they would say that they are.
* * *
"You're the one," Constantine protests, breathlessly, "who's always lecturing about tempering justice with mercy."
Combeferre grins down at him. "And vice versa. Moderation, you know."
The king yelps, and seizes a pillow to defend himself.