Amalia
For my part, I know nothing with any certainty
She leans on the counter as he speaks, still dangerously quiet, her black eyes flinty, firelit steel. He does not say the thing she fears, the thing she knows lurks behind his words; and Amalia does not ask the question, does not push for the denial she knows will come. Her hands continue to work the cakes, muscle memory fueling the actions, comfort found in the routine. As soon as I can get fire from Rory- she watches as he slides a rock across the counter, not moving to grab it, not asking the questions on her tongue. Let him explain. Let him do the talking.Amalia is done being the one to speak. She is done trying every time.
He continues to explain. Masks from Remi, unicorn guards, and still no barring of her participation, no threat or ultimatum that she cannot come. Slowly the baker begins to soften, unwinding a little, easing down. Perhaps she misjudged the behemoth; perhaps he knew the pointlessness of trying to keep her from this next misadventure, to prevent her from standing at his side.
"I will bring my staff," she states simply, looking at the apple in his hand. "Remi made the healing stronger." Her dark eyes rise to meet his blue, an unspoken challenge, the last of her defiance. Try and tell me I'm not coming. Try and make me stay behind.
but the sight of the stars makes me dream
