Skip to content

Salvonne (slighted)

Salvonne sat spinning gold to straw. she paused every few bushels, touched a bruise along her jaw. her mutter sounded like a badger bristling. sudden she stopped, tilted her head–someone near was whistling.

he came fumbling in a burst of clumsy color from the bushes, tumbled to a crumpled heap nearby her feet. uncurling her toes and talons, Salvonne spoke sarcastic in a sound of sweet: “Am-bass-a-dor, how nice to see you. enjoying our variety of thorns?”

«sticlyc», skittered the sketchkin count, «nilted murkit trellis. mine ittorn!» he drew himself together, up to mullein height, and spread out wide his piebald cloak. from splits and rips all ‘cross its length came dusty rays of diffuse light, and wisps of cinnamon-scented smoke.

“i can see that,” said the maiden, “and i must say i’m surprised. i’d heard your tribe had talent turning trails from tangles. thus was i advised when first you came.”

«Silhfun,» he rasped (he’d always had trouble pronouncing her name), «yorn hendwork its in colkhcomplete. whotlesspected mine for whorness’spohn.» his cape collapsed as she gasped her gall, and by the time she threw her spindle he was gone.

she waited. when he didn’t reappear, she knelt, picked up the cloth, breathed in its scent. she thought she caught a whistle in the wind. she thought, he’ll come back. and if not, well, then i know where he went.

Published inSalvonne