it’s cool.
She knew the term from the dinner table, but still didn’t understand why temperature would have anything to do with an apparently positive value judgment.
“It’s all I know.” She went over to one of the tall, narrow doors that had glass panes. “Well, until now.”
Her roses were so close, she thought.
John whistled, and she looked over her shoulder at the pad he was holding face-out. Do you like it here at all? he’d written. And please know you can tell me you don’t. I won’t judge.
She fingered her robe. “I feel so different from everyone. I am lost in the conversations, though I speak the language.”
There was a long silence. When she glanced back at John, he was writing, his hand pausing every once in a while, as if he were choosing a word. He crossed something out. Wrote some more. When he was finished, he gave the pad to her.
I know what that’s like. Because I’m a mute, I feel out of place a lot of the time. It’s better since my transition, but it still happens. No one judges you here, though. We all like you, and we’re glad you’re in the house.
She read the paragraph twice. She wasn’t sure how to respond to the last part. She’d assumed she was tolerated because the Primale had brought her in.
“But . . . your grace, I thought you had assumed the mantle of silence?” As he flushed, she said, “I’m sorry, that’s not my concern.”
He wrote and then showed her his words. I was born without a voice box. The next sentence was crossed out, but she was able to get the gist. He’d written something like, But I still fight well and I’m smart and everything.
She could understand the subterfuge. The Chosen, like the glymera , valued physical perfection as evidence of proper breeding and the strength of the race’s genes. Many would have viewed his silence as a deficiency, and even the Chosen could be cruel to those they viewed as beneath them.
Cormia reached out and put her hand on his forearm. “I think not all things have to be spoken to be understood. And it is well obvious you are fit and strong.”
His cheeks bloomed with color, his head dropping to hide his eyes.
Cormia smiled. It seemed perverse that she should relax in the face of his getting awkward, but somehow she felt as though they were on more level footing.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
Emotion flickered across his face as he went back to the pad. Eight months or so. They took me in because I had no family. My father was killed.
“I am so sorry for your loss. Tell me . . . do you stay because you like it here?”
There was a long pause. Then he wrote slowly. When he flashed her the pad, it said, I like it no more or less than I would any other house.
“Which makes you displaced like me,” she murmured. “Here but not here.”
He nodded, then smiled, revealing bright white fangs.
Cormia couldn’t help but return the expression on his handsome face.
Back at the Sanctuary, everyone had been like her. Here? No one was at all. Until now.
So do you have any questions you’d like to ask about stuff? he wrote. The house? The staff? Phury said you might have some.
Questions . . . oh, she could think of a few. For instance, how long had the Primale been in love with Bella? Had there ever been any feelings on her side? Had the two of them ever layed together?
Her eyes focused on the books. “I don’t have any questions right now.” For no particular reason, she added, "I just finished Choderlos de Laclos’s Les Liaisons Dangereuses. ”
They made that into a movie. Sarah Michelle Gellar and Ryan Phillippe and Reese Witherspoon.
“A movie? And who are all those people?”
He wrote for quite a while. You know television, right? That flat panel in the billiards room? Well, movies are on an even bigger screen, and the people in them are called actors. They pretend to be people. Those three are actors. Actually, they’re all actors, when they’re on TV or in the movies.
She knew the term from the dinner table, but still didn’t understand why temperature would have anything to do with an apparently positive value judgment.
“It’s all I know.” She went over to one of the tall, narrow doors that had glass panes. “Well, until now.”
Her roses were so close, she thought.
John whistled, and she looked over her shoulder at the pad he was holding face-out. Do you like it here at all? he’d written. And please know you can tell me you don’t. I won’t judge.
She fingered her robe. “I feel so different from everyone. I am lost in the conversations, though I speak the language.”
There was a long silence. When she glanced back at John, he was writing, his hand pausing every once in a while, as if he were choosing a word. He crossed something out. Wrote some more. When he was finished, he gave the pad to her.
I know what that’s like. Because I’m a mute, I feel out of place a lot of the time. It’s better since my transition, but it still happens. No one judges you here, though. We all like you, and we’re glad you’re in the house.
She read the paragraph twice. She wasn’t sure how to respond to the last part. She’d assumed she was tolerated because the Primale had brought her in.
“But . . . your grace, I thought you had assumed the mantle of silence?” As he flushed, she said, “I’m sorry, that’s not my concern.”
He wrote and then showed her his words. I was born without a voice box. The next sentence was crossed out, but she was able to get the gist. He’d written something like, But I still fight well and I’m smart and everything.
She could understand the subterfuge. The Chosen, like the glymera , valued physical perfection as evidence of proper breeding and the strength of the race’s genes. Many would have viewed his silence as a deficiency, and even the Chosen could be cruel to those they viewed as beneath them.
Cormia reached out and put her hand on his forearm. “I think not all things have to be spoken to be understood. And it is well obvious you are fit and strong.”
His cheeks bloomed with color, his head dropping to hide his eyes.
Cormia smiled. It seemed perverse that she should relax in the face of his getting awkward, but somehow she felt as though they were on more level footing.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
Emotion flickered across his face as he went back to the pad. Eight months or so. They took me in because I had no family. My father was killed.
“I am so sorry for your loss. Tell me . . . do you stay because you like it here?”
There was a long pause. Then he wrote slowly. When he flashed her the pad, it said, I like it no more or less than I would any other house.
“Which makes you displaced like me,” she murmured. “Here but not here.”
He nodded, then smiled, revealing bright white fangs.
Cormia couldn’t help but return the expression on his handsome face.
Back at the Sanctuary, everyone had been like her. Here? No one was at all. Until now.
So do you have any questions you’d like to ask about stuff? he wrote. The house? The staff? Phury said you might have some.
Questions . . . oh, she could think of a few. For instance, how long had the Primale been in love with Bella? Had there ever been any feelings on her side? Had the two of them ever layed together?
Her eyes focused on the books. “I don’t have any questions right now.” For no particular reason, she added, "I just finished Choderlos de Laclos’s Les Liaisons Dangereuses. ”
They made that into a movie. Sarah Michelle Gellar and Ryan Phillippe and Reese Witherspoon.
“A movie? And who are all those people?”
He wrote for quite a while. You know television, right? That flat panel in the billiards room? Well, movies are on an even bigger screen, and the people in them are called actors. They pretend to be people. Those three are actors. Actually, they’re all actors, when they’re on TV or in the movies.
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