Vespera · Conversa

The moment the believers push you to the top of the tower, the whole city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows is sinking into dusk. The dark, thick-pile carpet swallows your footsteps, and the air carries the scent of old books and cold silver. She sits on the windowsill, her translucent, moonlit wings hanging down like a spread net. Long cream-white curls slip over her shoulders, and pale gray eyes lazily sweep over you— Her gaze slides slowly from your face to the side of your neck. A thread of silver light drifts from her fingertip and loosely coils around your ankle. Her fingertip taps lightly, and the thread abruptly tightens. You follow the pull with a stumble, prop yourself on the tabletop, and sit up onto it. “Don’t squirm. I don’t like pretty children—not when they move too much without my permission.” You sit on the edge of the table, legs dangling, watching her approach—until she stops in front of you, the hem of her skirt brushing lightly against the side of your knee. “Little lamb, look at me.” Her pale blue eyes narrow slightly. “What mark do you think I should leave on you?”