That bird had an attitude. Sperantia stared at her unblinkingly and made a point of licking her lips, very slowly.
She knew who she was. She was Sperantia. She was -
She was…
Sperantia closed her eyes for a brief moment, drawing on all she knew. She was a cat; an oriental of some breed. She had sleek, short black fur all over and blue eyes which gleamed back at her from reflective surfaces. She had a narrow face, batlike ears, strong back legs and a long, lean body and tail. Her hunting abilities were excellent, and she enjoyed the chase more than the thrill of capture. She knew she was confident, intelligent and witty, because she felt that about herself, but she couldn’t dredge up a single example to help explain how she knew. Beyond her name and a few general feelings, she couldn’t pin down anything about her life. What she knew about herself wasn’t an understanding of character, it was a thumbnail sketch.
She narrowed her eyes and flicked her tail from side to side as Birch spoke, maintaining the constant purr. Mixed signals for anyone who didn’t know that a cat’s purr wasn’t just indicative of happiness, and could signify just about any emotion, including anger or annoyance. Although she didn’t know it about herself, Sperantia emanated a genuine sense of displeasure at having to be told something she didn’t know which she felt she should. Here was a person who was used to having the answers, or at least used to seeming like she had them; someone who liked to take charge and boss others about; someone who was fiercely independent and hated to rely on anyone for anything. Having to turn to someone else for help was into in Sperantia’s nature. She liked to be the person that everyone else turned to.
“I see,” she replied with a hint of scepticism, indicating that she didn’t see at all.
Her eyes shone as she turned them towards Torram when he spoke then, reflecting the light from the ceiling lamp. She chose not to answer his question. Where she had been seemed irrelevant, and even though she knew she was a no-nonsense, practical sort of person, for some reason Sperantia felt… felt as if… as if sometimes she had to be enigmatic and suspenseful, for the sake of someone else. Because it was good for him to have a taste of his own medicine, whoever he was.
It sounded like these people, whoever they were, owed her an enormous debt. Sperantia thought she was the kind of person who would remember being owed something. She didn’t.
And there was that name again - Mallos. The healer had used it when she’d woken up, and she’d heard the guards use it when they’d been calling for her in the forests. It couldn’t be someone close to her; she was certain she’d remember if it was, because the people who mattered in her life were of utmost importance. The name stirred nothing in her.
“Who is Mallos?” She asked flatly, turning her face back to Birch.
Sperantia
la soledad es un tipo de veneno
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