you pour the water —
Baptise can barely hold back the laughter that springs forth from her, unencumbered and unhampered and so real that is nearly hurts. There is mirth in her eyes and although there are edges of it that are self deprecating and soaked in so much truth that it’s like poison on her tongue, she focuses on the joy instead. “Oh, Ili,” she says, shaking her dark head, the halo swinging above it, “you can’t copy that which you outshine.” Her mouth crinkles in the corner and she butts her sister’s shoulder. “You are your own.”
Something twists in her chest at the words.
Yet another truth unacknowledged.
(Her sister is genuine and she is false hearted. Iliana’s glow is real and hers is a sham.)
But they don’t rise to the surface and don’t show in the gentle lines of her face. Because if there is anything she is good at, it is lying—even when that lie is sweetened for the sake of her sister.
She smiles then again, real and genuine, and she chews on the inside of her cheek. “I have met several,” she goes through the catalogue of her memories, “but my favorite is the boy who turns to stone.” Her brow furrows into a frown as she tries to think how to describe Nemeon. “He was fun and it was like he didn’t care that he could never see the sun.” She pauses. “Do you think you could live like that?”
— I would haul the stones
