A talk with Marcus
FARAH Marcus finds me on my morning walk on a Thursday. Not by accident — I’ve been in this palace long enough to know that nothing Marcus does is by accident, that the ease he moves through the world with is real but it is also, underneath the realness of it, deliberate. He falls into step beside me at the kind of distance that is carefully not threatening, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the grounds ahead, and the two guards assigned to my walks exchange a look and maintain their professional distance behind us. “You walk fast for someone with short legs,” he says, by way of greeting. I glance at him sideways. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.” “I’m exactly as funny as I think I am,” he says. “Caspian just has no sense of humor.” We walk in silence for a moment after
- Writer
