“she takes me by the seams, she does, this girl i keep dreaming, and some of me is sated by my somnolence’seeming.”
Candorféa connects the dots she’s doodled on her pad, considers them constellarized and frowns – the news is bad. (she’s young at this, though old in else, and lets each message etch her heart.) “you’ve drawn a sickle-in-seven here, with your sar[he]tori[c]al pride-in-part.” so falls the client’s crest. “so you tell now the rest.”
he’sitant to say, she sees, and rather more; her tolerance is slim. she puts on the face that puts the fear in any him. “don’t bore me. sing.”
“here’s the thing–” he starts, then stops; says “telemetry.” and sits himself back. Candy warms; more comfortable territory, this. some kind of kiss, some kind of [s]lack, some siderealteration and panopticoncentration; nothing she can’t conjure in a wink.
she cracks her knuckles, then her voice, shuffling cards and [p]laying her choice. “we’ll start you with the Angels of Incidence, then, i think.”