karma's a relaxing thought, aren't you envious that for you it's not?
Flora tips her head back with a bright laugh. "Oh, trust me, Sugar’s just as territorial as Spice is. If my dad had ended up with both, they’d have ganged up on him and made his life absolute hell. He’d never have stood a chance." The grin that follows is wide and easy, salt air curling her braid against her collarbone as she steps a little closer to the waves lapping cool over her toes.
In response to Damien's terribly dry question, she flicks a glance over her shoulder at him, brows bouncing up once in mock secrecy before she nods ahead. The sprawl of the port is already cutting a bright shape against the coastline, masts and sails bobbing against the horizon like stitched banners. "That," she says, pointing with her chin, "would be the Lucky Rum Fountain. Built it a few years back to give all our sailors a blessing before they head out to sea. Luck in liquid form."
By the time they reach the docks, music has woven itself into the air, mingling with the brine and pitch. Flora steps straight up to the stone fountain, its carvings etched deep with mermaids and waves, and swipes two small glasses from the tray nearby. Symbols of anchors, compasses, and ship wheels catch the sun across their rims as she dips them beneath the white stream flowing steady from the spout.
She hands one to Damien with a grin tugging her lips crooked. "Moment of truth." Her own glass tips back in one smooth swallow. The rum slips down sharp and clean, without the syrupy bite that ruins lesser blends. It’s good—, but that isn’t what makes her cheeks flush; what makes her fingers tingle, what sets her laugh spilling bright and startled into the air, is the rush of luck that floods her veins. A fluttery, impossible sort of adrenaline, like she could walk a tightrope blindfolded or take on the tide and win.
Lowering her empty glass, she shakes her head, eyes sparkling. "There’s no Halovian whiskey that can do that," she says, voice husky with amusement, her smile daring him to disagree as literal luck courses through her veins.
In response to Damien's terribly dry question, she flicks a glance over her shoulder at him, brows bouncing up once in mock secrecy before she nods ahead. The sprawl of the port is already cutting a bright shape against the coastline, masts and sails bobbing against the horizon like stitched banners. "That," she says, pointing with her chin, "would be the Lucky Rum Fountain. Built it a few years back to give all our sailors a blessing before they head out to sea. Luck in liquid form."
By the time they reach the docks, music has woven itself into the air, mingling with the brine and pitch. Flora steps straight up to the stone fountain, its carvings etched deep with mermaids and waves, and swipes two small glasses from the tray nearby. Symbols of anchors, compasses, and ship wheels catch the sun across their rims as she dips them beneath the white stream flowing steady from the spout.
She hands one to Damien with a grin tugging her lips crooked. "Moment of truth." Her own glass tips back in one smooth swallow. The rum slips down sharp and clean, without the syrupy bite that ruins lesser blends. It’s good—, but that isn’t what makes her cheeks flush; what makes her fingers tingle, what sets her laugh spilling bright and startled into the air, is the rush of luck that floods her veins. A fluttery, impossible sort of adrenaline, like she could walk a tightrope blindfolded or take on the tide and win.
Lowering her empty glass, she shakes her head, eyes sparkling. "There’s no Halovian whiskey that can do that," she says, voice husky with amusement, her smile daring him to disagree as literal luck courses through her veins.
