A M A L I A
She wants to shake him, just a little, to find some way to get through his skull that friendship is about sharing, caring, give and take. Hypocritically, of course: Amalia and Remi are one and the same, each too determined to care for the world, unwilling to be cared for in return. Instead of violence she gives an exaggerated sigh, a verbal version of an eye-roll, chuckling softly to herself.
"I prefer the stars." Amalia smiles, thinking of the starwhale asleep upstairs, desperate to escape the summer heat. Fear jolts through her as he nearly trips, and the girl springs forward to catch his form, her inherent anxiety bounding to the fore as danger looms to strike. Wrapping her arm securely in his, the baker watches with hawk-like intensity as he takes the staff and feels around, her eyes on his feet, his gait, and the dangers of the shop. "I broke everything fragile years ago." Her voice is wry and nostalgic, and not entirely dishonest: she has broken many a piece of glass.
As they step outside Amalia inhales, enjoying the sunlight on her face. Guiding him toward a patch of grass, the girl briefly steps away to lay a blanket down. "Where else would I keep it?" she replies lightly, though there is something hard beneath her tone. Since LongNight the baker has kept the staff close, some superstitious part of her believing the antlers will keep her safe, that if she stays in the glowing red light she will not come to harm.
Which she well knows is entirely untrue, but we do not choose our totems.
"My mother taught me to fight with staves." She leads him down to the blanket, tucked neatly between two of Deimos' lavender plants. "I had hers for a while when she died, but it broke when, um. When we found the Voice." A series of unhappy memories; Amalia's voice falters and dims, growing pensive with thought. " I was going to have it fixed, but never got around to it. After LongNight, when I... well, the luxere antlers seemed to be protective. They made me feel safe. So I tied them to this staff, to make a, ah, a crown of sorts." She shrugs sheepishly, feeling foolish for her sadness, her childishness, her fear.
