Page 143 - DivineSparkRising II-TheMirrorofSilenceFinal

Nicholas Boothman
Sera stepped and stepped and stepped: palm-palm-
forehead-heart.
The Redactors hesitated — the briefest human
pause. They did not understand choreography as
language. It wasn’t in their diet.
One reached for Carolina. Henry blocked and
caught a mirrored palm full on his forearm. Pain
sang electric; he tasted old coins. He crowded in,
forcing proximity, breath messy and mortal. The
Redactor tried to speak backward into skin and lost
her sentence when Sera sang two notes that made
brick remember itself.
Carolina shoved through the gap she’d bought,
ripped the plate, and the three of them spilled into
Lisbon’s ordinary light, exactly the right shade of
indifferent.
They ran without dramatics, the way people run
in a city that has learned to mind its own miracles.
Only when they ducked into a side street full of
shouting vendors did Henry let his back find a
wall.
Sera bent at the waist, hands on knees, laughing
between gulps of air. “They don’t know what
dancing is,” she said.
“They will,” Carolina said. “Unless we teach
everyone first.”
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