It’s tempting to open her eyes and look over at the girl when the silence between them lingers but Rhadra resists. Instead she focuses on the brook, the soft shush of wind high up in the trees, the chirr of an early cricket somewhere in the grass. She is present in this pleasant time and she believes the girl shares some bit of this peace with her. At least, so Rhadra hopes.
Her voice is so sad when she finishes her reply that Rhadra doesn’t push. There’s no point in prying that door open when the barest knock threatens tears, and her curiosity isn’t better than the girl’s wellbeing. But the fact that she can’t or won’t answer the question drives suspicion deeper within Rhadra. This girl is sweet, if a bit skittish, and doesn’t seem to be masking malice.
She’d like to meet papa and see what’s what.
One ear curves toward the girl as she steps closer, and then Rhadra does allow her lids to lift— just a little. “My favorite game?” she repeats. “Hum... I suppose I’ve always liked looking for things wearing the shape of other things. Clouds are especially good for that.” Rhadra points her nose skyward. Backlit a brilliant orange are the last of the day’s white travelers, thinned from their journey and sporting only a few bulges here and there. She tilts her head a bit. “See that one trailing off at the end there? It looks a little like a bird when you tip your head the right way. See his beak?”
Growing up, this is how Rhadra had spent a lot of her free time. Staring skyward or trying to make sense of the messages in the leaves or, on occasion, peering into the water to discover the mysteries of whatever was submerged: pebbles, glimmering shells, or most often just the swirls made by disturbed sand. She and her sister had not been close, and a band stallion was no replacement for a mother. Her games were often activities that could be done alone.
“What about you?” she asks the girl. “What sorts of games do you like to play?” |