“Oh,” Margot exclaims as a wistful, almost-teasing smile lifts her lips. “A shame you are only visiting now,” she adds. Her eyes glaze with the memories of her childhood: her demon uncle and all her hellish cousins, the rough hewn shrubbery scratching her skin, all the red dirt caked to her pale legs. That wistful smile on her face goes stronger, more lost.
Miffed, perhaps. Beneath all the lovely pedantics.
“Icicle Isle, then?” Margot eventually coughs out, far-away eyes once again finding a present day clarity. She blinks at Jesper, forcing her face into friendly relaxation. “I can’t say I ever visited the Isle. It was . . . remote,” she finishes, then giggles at her own joke.
“It’s certainly emptier,” the porcelain woman answers with a muted frown. Though her mind wants to stray again, Margot forces herself to remain in this reality.
“Do you miss it?” she asks suddenly. “I mean . . . Beqanna like it was before.”
@
Jesper