I could tell you a tale about something,' Miach offered, rubbing her hand absently. 'If you like. ' She frowned thoughtfully. 'What sort of something?' 'Something that would soothe you,' he promised. 'I'm sure there would be swords involved. Bloodshed. Peril. That kind of thing.
The night is falling down around us. Meteors rain like fireworks, quick rips in the seam of the dark. . . Every second, another streak of silver glows: parentheses, exclamation points, commas - a whole grammar made of light, for words too hard to speak.