Fifty Nine
The sun should have felt like a gift. Zaria held Cillian against her chest and tried to let the warmth seep into her bones anyway. Tried to let the garden convince her that the Isles were still what they pretended to be: safe, quiet, untouched by the fever spreading across the western sea. “Thank you for coming out on a picnic with me, Fay,” Zaria said, shifting her squirming little dragon higher on her hip. Fay spread the checkered blanket over the lush grass with practiced hands, smoothing the corners flat so it wouldn’t bunch beneath their knees. “It’s always a pleasure,” she said, offering Zaria a small smile. “I enjoy your company.” It wasn’t a polite lie. Zaria could feel that much. Fay’s warmth was steady, like a hearth that didn’t flare or dim depending on who stood near it.
- Writer
