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As Knowe hikes fast over the plain and down the heather-thick slope to the farms spread out along the low lands, she almost laughs thinking: of course a ghost is the first person to want her singing.
“Come back and sing with me!” the ghost calls at her back.
Her fingers dance in swoops and waves, cutting runes into the powder. It's odd to see. Hands usually draw with inks or chalk. Powder and silver-tipped slippers are for simple gestures in duels, when there is no time to stoop and paint. With my warped foot, dueling is an impossibility, but I have seen her practice countless times.
It has to be true, because a year without her is a year without myself.
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“Come back and sing with me!” the ghost calls at her back.
From the Archives:
“Nothing in Driftwood is free. What do you want?”