*Tarquin*
Suddenly I catch a flash of crimson that has to be Isolde’s skirts. I’ve followed the ridge down the lee side, and now I’m standing under a tree, gazing up.
The cherry kite invariably found a tree to plunge into. I slow and savor the walk toward her. My entire body is tight, fierce, as if I’m barely in control. Which is absurd because I’m always in control, and always have been.
Even five years ago, when I turned away from the pier, knowing I was too late... I hadn’t lost control. No. That isn’t entirely true; I shouldn’t rewrite history. I had tried to throw myself in the water, bellowed for a boat, had to be restrained by the harbormaster.
But after… after, I walked away without a word. One foot before the other foot.
This is a different sort of emotion, like wildfire in m
