Chapter 7
Sisters
It’s late when I visit my sister.
She’s crouched on a hill, perched on a rock, shoulders hunched. I can see her outline against the blare of the Moon.
As usual, my sister is overseeing the migration. I greet her, because I have manners. Hers sloughed off the moment she was born.
You’re slouching, I note. Your posture has taken a turn.
She says nothing, eyes alabaster, locked on her work.
So grim! So dour! So sour!
She scratches her ear. It’s getting harder to tell if she’s ignoring me, or simply doesn’t hear. I tend to avoid my sister when she’s catatonic with responsibility, but I require her audience, and aim for the uncalloused spots.
Your duty weathers you, your majesty. You look tired.
The Archangel hisses back.
Is there a reason you’re here, Gerasa?
My sister won’t be distracted from her labor. For this, I am grateful. I hate it when she looks at me.
Father is asking after you, I relay.
And?
He would like to visit the brackish.
Why?
Sport.
I deliver the message out of filial obligation, and not much else. Father’s orders leave her equally enthused.
Fine.
Her eyes never leave her labor. This is best: no need to interrupt the migration; no need to court her scrutiny. I turn to leave, but she’s not done with me.
Gerasa?
Her still form burns like a forest fire, witnessed from a risky distance.
Yes?
The next time Father has a message, let him send his motley batch. You are too important for these errands.
Her sincerity disarms me. We do not talk like this; we are not those kind of sisters.
It is unbefitting. You forget your worth.
Fortunately, the cosmos intervenes before I am obliged to return her compliments.
Look! The night is red!
My sister has an ear for my lies, so she knows to look up.
Well then, this is new.
She is surprised.
Two cycles: one pure, one blooded.
The Archangel looks at me.
Someone up there must know we’re coming.
