09-19-2026, 07:20 PM
(This post was last modified: 09-19-2026, 07:20 PM by Lalitha Vero.
Edit Reason: typo
)
The twins laughed themselves raw over the pendant when they discovered who had gifted it. Lalitha had listened, amused, neither joining the ridicule nor defending against it. Uncle Fennix made beautiful jewellery; filigrees of intricate silver and semi-precious stones, and the rough bone charm looked foolish and unfinished amongst the other necklaces draped habitually about her neck, but it was perhaps because of her cousins’ reactions that she took to wearing it. It drew a reaction, and Litha did love a good story.
Days had passed but she still hadn’t returned Marek’s coat, despite complaints that it made their caravan stink of grease. In fact she hadn’t seen him since, partly in avoidance, and partly to give respite. Given half a chance she’d tease him to folly or ruin, knowing now that she got under his skin and riled up a tempest. Lalitha thrived on the attention, even when she knew she shouldn’t. So it was better for everyone if she gave it space to blow over a bit.
She’d spent the evening in the city, circling through the bars and clubs she knew would let her in to play. Over the past year she had begged, borrowed, and stolen every favour she could to land the opportunities, heedless of the consequences of unpaid debts. It wasn’t like the carnival. She was an outsider here, something wild and untamed that didn’t quite fit amongst the civilised glamour. Not just the way she looked, but the free way she performed, and the things she sang about. The rhythm dictated itself, revealed its own mood and cadence, and that night was no different – until she caught eyes with a face she recognised.
He was among a larger group, all suited in wealth and arrogance and underworld power. Lalitha’s heart dropped, then beat heard. A frightened pause became theatre. She channeled it into the performance, let her focus find every one of the men at the table to pull them in further. For a while she was Scheherazade with a guitar, weaving magic to stave off the monster. When the captivation of the song finally came to an end she had the audacity to wink before she slipped off stage.
The moment the audience faded from view, she ran. No pause to wrangle her fee. No breath to stow her guitar back in its case. She didn’t even stop to grab her shoes, shucked for the freedom of barefeet on stage. An arm grabbed her outside the door but she didn’t slow to find out exactly what they wanted. She owed money to bad people. The light was streaming off her, as much wicked witch as Sámiel had joked she could be, and it must have made her slippery. Her feet made a drumbeat through the loitering crowds of the RLD, until the people thinned and she was free.
Litha didn’t stop until she reached the river, chest heaving, bare feet aching and frozen, and even then only to throw a wild look over her shoulder. Her fingers squeezed the neck of her guitar. Would they have followed? Well, maybe. But she was a small fish and hardly worth the hassle of a proper pursuit. Soon enough she was disappearing into the carnival’s arms.
Days had passed but she still hadn’t returned Marek’s coat, despite complaints that it made their caravan stink of grease. In fact she hadn’t seen him since, partly in avoidance, and partly to give respite. Given half a chance she’d tease him to folly or ruin, knowing now that she got under his skin and riled up a tempest. Lalitha thrived on the attention, even when she knew she shouldn’t. So it was better for everyone if she gave it space to blow over a bit.
She’d spent the evening in the city, circling through the bars and clubs she knew would let her in to play. Over the past year she had begged, borrowed, and stolen every favour she could to land the opportunities, heedless of the consequences of unpaid debts. It wasn’t like the carnival. She was an outsider here, something wild and untamed that didn’t quite fit amongst the civilised glamour. Not just the way she looked, but the free way she performed, and the things she sang about. The rhythm dictated itself, revealed its own mood and cadence, and that night was no different – until she caught eyes with a face she recognised.
He was among a larger group, all suited in wealth and arrogance and underworld power. Lalitha’s heart dropped, then beat heard. A frightened pause became theatre. She channeled it into the performance, let her focus find every one of the men at the table to pull them in further. For a while she was Scheherazade with a guitar, weaving magic to stave off the monster. When the captivation of the song finally came to an end she had the audacity to wink before she slipped off stage.
The moment the audience faded from view, she ran. No pause to wrangle her fee. No breath to stow her guitar back in its case. She didn’t even stop to grab her shoes, shucked for the freedom of barefeet on stage. An arm grabbed her outside the door but she didn’t slow to find out exactly what they wanted. She owed money to bad people. The light was streaming off her, as much wicked witch as Sámiel had joked she could be, and it must have made her slippery. Her feet made a drumbeat through the loitering crowds of the RLD, until the people thinned and she was free.
Litha didn’t stop until she reached the river, chest heaving, bare feet aching and frozen, and even then only to throw a wild look over her shoulder. Her fingers squeezed the neck of her guitar. Would they have followed? Well, maybe. But she was a small fish and hardly worth the hassle of a proper pursuit. Soon enough she was disappearing into the carnival’s arms.
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