flora
Flora wrinkles her nose at Mel, a small, fond scrunch that she does not even try to disguise, and for a heartbeat she looks younger—lighter—than the weight of crowns and breakups and reputations would suggest. Proud of you settles somewhere deep, and she lets it. Lets it sit, lets it warm, even as that warmth fractures a moment later.
What Mel says about Jack is casual. Harmless, almost affectionate in their way, and yet something inside Flora stills so abruptly it is like stepping into shade after standing in the sun too long. The tumsea float drifts beneath her, the water slapping softly against its inflated sides, but her hand—half-submerged—goes cold. Flora had assumed—no, not assumed, she had felt—that he had been unravelled. That the sharpness in the lighthouse, the frost in his voice, had been something cracked open and bleeding. Hurt, badly and clumsily disguised. She had told herself that, anyway, and it had made the cruelty survivable.
But what if he had not been hollowed out at all? What if he had just been angry. What if the quiet distance, the glacial civility, had not been grief but resentment. Disgust. What if he had not left Torchline because it ached too much to stay, but because he could not bear the sight of her because he hated her? She swallows, slow, and tilts her head in a way that feels almost rehearsed. Her smile returns, but it is narrower now, trimmed carefully to fit the shape of the moment. "Yeah," she says lightly, lifting her glass as though punctuating a harmless anecdote. "I can imagine."
The water glints bright and indifferent between them.
Flora inhales once, deliberately, then exhales through her nose as Melita launches into cannons and chaos and Ludo’s trickster favour, and the shift is almost physical, like stepping back into sunlight on purpose. She straightens a little on the float, letting the grin return in earnest this time. "Yeah, Ronin’s starbolts pack a hella punch," she agrees, laughter threading back through her voice as she adjusts her sunglasses. "But I bet whatever Ludo comes up with will be epic."
At the mention of cannons for Torchline, her grin widens properly now, wicked and delighted, and she kicks one heel lightly against the water to pivot her float so she is angled more toward the estate and the distant stretch of Haulani beyond. "Okay," she says, Queen sliding comfortably over her shoulders without dimming the sparkle in her tone. "Where should they go?" She gestures vaguely with her glass toward the coastline, rings flashing. "We could put them in the port, since that's where the ships come in. Make it very clear that if approach Torchline with nonsense, you're going to leave with holes. Orrrrrrrrr," she drawls, stretching the word, "we put one along the floating portion of Haulani so they can shoot farther out?" She taps the rim of her glass thoughtfully against her lower lip. "Or we get obnoxious about it and build a floating cannon platform further out in the water. I dunno how we'd get to it then, but my dads could move it around if we needed to I guess."
What Mel says about Jack is casual. Harmless, almost affectionate in their way, and yet something inside Flora stills so abruptly it is like stepping into shade after standing in the sun too long. The tumsea float drifts beneath her, the water slapping softly against its inflated sides, but her hand—half-submerged—goes cold. Flora had assumed—no, not assumed, she had felt—that he had been unravelled. That the sharpness in the lighthouse, the frost in his voice, had been something cracked open and bleeding. Hurt, badly and clumsily disguised. She had told herself that, anyway, and it had made the cruelty survivable.
But what if he had not been hollowed out at all? What if he had just been angry. What if the quiet distance, the glacial civility, had not been grief but resentment. Disgust. What if he had not left Torchline because it ached too much to stay, but because he could not bear the sight of her because he hated her? She swallows, slow, and tilts her head in a way that feels almost rehearsed. Her smile returns, but it is narrower now, trimmed carefully to fit the shape of the moment. "Yeah," she says lightly, lifting her glass as though punctuating a harmless anecdote. "I can imagine."
The water glints bright and indifferent between them.
Flora inhales once, deliberately, then exhales through her nose as Melita launches into cannons and chaos and Ludo’s trickster favour, and the shift is almost physical, like stepping back into sunlight on purpose. She straightens a little on the float, letting the grin return in earnest this time. "Yeah, Ronin’s starbolts pack a hella punch," she agrees, laughter threading back through her voice as she adjusts her sunglasses. "But I bet whatever Ludo comes up with will be epic."
At the mention of cannons for Torchline, her grin widens properly now, wicked and delighted, and she kicks one heel lightly against the water to pivot her float so she is angled more toward the estate and the distant stretch of Haulani beyond. "Okay," she says, Queen sliding comfortably over her shoulders without dimming the sparkle in her tone. "Where should they go?" She gestures vaguely with her glass toward the coastline, rings flashing. "We could put them in the port, since that's where the ships come in. Make it very clear that if approach Torchline with nonsense, you're going to leave with holes. Orrrrrrrrr," she drawls, stretching the word, "we put one along the floating portion of Haulani so they can shoot farther out?" She taps the rim of her glass thoughtfully against her lower lip. "Or we get obnoxious about it and build a floating cannon platform further out in the water. I dunno how we'd get to it then, but my dads could move it around if we needed to I guess."
The rumors are terrible and cruel
But honey, most of them are true
But honey, most of them are true
