Lysandra
Every face wears a mask
Lysandra’s laugh came softer, more breath than sound, like paper lanterns catching on a breeze. “Interrupted? Not at all. Pleasantly surprised, maybe. But the sky is big enough for both of us.” Her smile lingered as if to seal it true, not simply polite.
Her gaze followed Flora’s upward, to the rafters where the whale had vanished. “I came up here hoping to see the starwhales. But they only ever pass when it suits them.” A shrug, skirts whispering. “I grew impatient. So I made my own.”
The words trailed, but her eyes didn’t miss the sadness that brushed across Flora’s. Lysandra tilted her head, as though she were listening for a note gone off-key. She didn’t ask. Instead, her smile softened into something more certain. “They say starwhales will find whoever needs them most,” she murmured, her voice like a tale told by firelight. “Maybe that’s why you walked through the door.”
Her hands lifted, weaving light until a second whale, an orca, shimmered into being — larger than before, steadier, her concentration knitting it bright. Its fins fanned like sails of starlight, tail scattering soft sparks as it swam. A low hum followed, richer than her first attempt, seeming to thrum through the boards beneath their feet.
She guided it gently toward Flora, close enough for its glow to brush her shoulder before it swam slowly upward, circling like a watchful star. Only then did Lysandra lower her hands, though her smile remained, touched by something knowing.
“The real ones go where they please,” she said softly. “But mine? Mine will stay as long as you’d like.”
Her gaze followed Flora’s upward, to the rafters where the whale had vanished. “I came up here hoping to see the starwhales. But they only ever pass when it suits them.” A shrug, skirts whispering. “I grew impatient. So I made my own.”
The words trailed, but her eyes didn’t miss the sadness that brushed across Flora’s. Lysandra tilted her head, as though she were listening for a note gone off-key. She didn’t ask. Instead, her smile softened into something more certain. “They say starwhales will find whoever needs them most,” she murmured, her voice like a tale told by firelight. “Maybe that’s why you walked through the door.”
Her hands lifted, weaving light until a second whale, an orca, shimmered into being — larger than before, steadier, her concentration knitting it bright. Its fins fanned like sails of starlight, tail scattering soft sparks as it swam. A low hum followed, richer than her first attempt, seeming to thrum through the boards beneath their feet.
She guided it gently toward Flora, close enough for its glow to brush her shoulder before it swam slowly upward, circling like a watchful star. Only then did Lysandra lower her hands, though her smile remained, touched by something knowing.
“The real ones go where they please,” she said softly. “But mine? Mine will stay as long as you’d like.”
✦ ✧ ✦
