SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES
It is not lost on Gospel that her first question goes unanswered.
It makes her nerves bristle, leaves them raw as she regards the mare standing in front of her. Perhaps there is some part of her more interested in the child huddled against her side, as if he might someday have more to offer the Cove than his mother. But she does not so much as glance in his direction, lest she give herself away. She merely goes on watching the mare, her tongue pressed against a fanged tooth.
The mare speaks, uses her hard language, and Gospel is almost moved to amusement. There is some distant corner of her that wonders if the mare thinks her language impressive. If she believes Gospel will be swayed by her unwillingness to waste her time or fill her head with bullshit.
She is not swayed to softness nor camaraderie by the mare’s words. It does absolutely nothing to warm her cold, cold heart. But not even she can deny that hard workers are useful or that the mare had listed qualities that were desirable, even to her.
There is no immediate indication that Gospel had heard her at all, except for the way she slides her gaze away from the mare’s face and lands them heavy on the boy’s. “Five years,” she echoes, glancing back at the mare. She only holds her gaze a beat, though, “and the boy stays, too. All five years.”
She shifts her weight, tilts her head at the boy. Roughly the same age as her own children, perhaps they can teach him something.
And finally, she returns her focus to the mare. “I have to ask,” she purrs, “why the Cove?”
@[evarae]