Moth

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE GREEN GEODE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE GREEN GEODE

Koyee stood, barefoot and gray with grime, playing her flute. Her hair hung around her face, caked with dirt. Her fur tunic lay in tatters across her. She felt too thin, too weak to play--she had not eaten or slept in an hourglass turn--and yet she played on.

I will not give up, she thought, playing "Sailing Alone" over and over, the only music she knew. I will keep making music for Eloria. For my home.

A good crowd walked here this session. A young couple, their faces glowing with new love, tossed her a coin each. Koyee gazed at them, envying their clean skin, fine silk clothes, and companionship, but only smiled in gratitude. A young girl ran from her mother, gave Koyee two copper coins, then blushed and ran off. Many other people walked by. The night was warm, the moon was full, and coins gathered around Koyee's feet.

Yet will I only lose them again next time I sleep? she wondered. Will more urchins steal them, or will Snaggletooth return?

She did not know how long she'd been lingering here, a filthy busker. Sometimes she worried this would be her life.

As her fingers moved across her flute, she noticed that one man had been watching her for a long time. Most folk paused for a moment, tossed a coin, and walked on. This man had been standing still, arms folded, simply staring.

Flute in mouth, she stared back, narrowing her eyes. The man seemed about fifty years old. He wore flowing green silks lined with fur, the fabric embroidered with silver snakes. A string of sapphires hung around his neck, and his fingernails were painted blue. His mustache was long and drooping, and he wore a small golden cap upon a bald head. He seemed wealthy to Koyee, but in a garish way like some foppish sorcerer.

She kept playing, and people kept walking by, and the man still stared--not humming along, not paying a coin, and never removing his eyes from her. Finally, after what seemed an hourglass turn, Koyee lowered her flute. Trying to ignore the strange man, she began walking down the street, heading toward the Fat Philosopher for a bowl of mushroom stew.

"Girl."

The voice was soft and smooth, the sound of silk rustling against silk. And yet it floated across the street and into her ears, rising above all other sounds. She turned and saw the colorful man staring at her.

"Girl," he repeated. "You play well."

She paused, her body still facing the tavern, her head looking over her shoulder at him.

"I'm awful," she said. "But I'm also hungry, so I play."

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. When he reached her, he thrust his face close and tilted his head.

"You have scars on your face," he said.

She looked away. His words cut her and her eyes burned. Fire seemed to fill her throat. She did not mind her scars--she had never cared for beauty--but how dare he so casually mention them?

"What concern of yours is my face?" she said and began walking away. "Farewell, stranger."

He walked alongside her, hands folded into his flowing sleeves. "I beg your pardon, young woman. Please forgive me. Allow me to buy you a meal. I would very much like to speak with you."

She snorted. "I am scarred, I am filthy, and I am thinner than a rail. If you seek a female friend, I suggest you go uptown where they wear silks and jewels."