Sketches vii-x

vii.
Elícia cupped the bloom of the rose in one hand as she sat outside the church. It sat lightly, suspended on its stem, in her pale right hand. Inigo had sent for her and told her to meet him at the yellow rose bush at noon. She wished he would hurry; the cold stone of the cathedral wall was freezing her bare shoulders.

The petals were soft; the blossom was new. Yesterday Father Inez had cut the flowers for altar decorations, leaving only the buds behind for lovers to steal.

viii. Sense memory: Elicia and 87% cacao content chocolate
“Impetuous child,” her father scolded over his papers as a seven-year-old Elícia ran from the kitchen with the treat wrapped in a handkerchief. She giggled as she scampered into the field behind the manor to find Rico and share the chocolate with him.

She broke the piece of her mother’s baking chocolate into two pieces and gave the larger to her older brother, who was reading his Book of the Prophets under a tall tree. Without exchanging a word, they both popped the near-black chocolate into their mouths. It was the most bitter and sweet combination of tastes Elícia had ever experienced. At first, the dryness made her crave a sip of water, but it melted quickly and filled her mouth with flavors from the distant Crescent Empire. It had become silk, at once smoother than her mother’s finest dresses and harsher than thorns.

ix. "art of fighting"

Oven mitts over tight clenched fists. Smirk on the clean face with a smudge of powdered sugar next to the wrinkled nose. One raised eyebrow; you question her domain? Curly short black hair shines in the morning light through a window. Impish smile adorns a perfect young face; she still has to grow into her nose. Pay attention to her; all else fades around her. Focus, boy! Her eyes would be covered if not for the clip in her bangs. God, I love her.

x. Sable's eye photograph

She doesn't pluck her eyebrows, or at least she hasn't recently. The eye is wide open. No mascara here. Flourescent bulbs are reflected on the iris. Black to silver to black again, in a white space. It's wet from too many tears. Shadows are scarce; she loves the light and can't live without it. She makes light. Behind her, all is darkness and you can't see a thing. Focus instead on the sparse hairs over the eyelid.