Serpentine [T.M. Riddle]

Production

Self-possessiveness is the first thing Tom used to describe Ximena. An ownership of herself that was clear and direct from day one, influenced by no movements or trends of the student body (or indeed, her country). Rather, as time went on, even with her quiet nature, she showed (proved!) she was the one to make waves. Even unintentionally. Such was her power. A silent self-possession.

Moonlike is a far more poetic term to describe Ximena, but it fits. Always present, though not always visible. Cool and dominant over water. Full of yin energy. Quieter than the sun whose light it reflects, yet more brilliant.

If Ximena is the moon, then her grandmother is the sun. Warm and burning, she radiates a dangerous type of magic quite openly. It is flame versus mist. Bluntness versus subtlety. She wears a loose frock that seems to be made from black fog. It hangs down to her ankles and flutters and moves with a wind that is not there. On its edges are intricate, filigree embroidered patterns that imitate flora and skeletons. Her elegant, brown hands carry golden rings, at least one to each finger; each unique and old and beautiful in their way. Around her neck, she wears the same jade rosary as she did when they first met.

"Señora Rivera?" He asks, his mind furiously making connections and trying to make sense of what the fuck was happening.

The woman smiles, and it's as if her lips are coated with poison. She opens her mouth and her voice is silk, "Señora Hidalgo is more correct."

Balam glances at his mother, unsurprised and unbothered, "You've met, then?"

"Something like that." The woman's nails nap on the table next to her, "You may call me Doña Inés."

He sees something like a smile tug at his teacher's lips before he returns to his plants. Tom nods once. Tries not to stare. Not to stare at the woman who now looks much too young to be anything like the grandmother of a teenager. Not a day over forty. Her only sign of age being the dramatic white stripe of hair on her head, pulled back with the rest into a braid crown. She holds a rounder face than that of her granddaughter, though still sharp and strong, with an arched, broken nose and smaller eyes. Black eyes. She could be his former classmate's mother. She looks much younger than she did months ago.

Her venomous smile widens as if she read his mind.

-

"She knew?" They sit in his room quietly—Rather, she sits on his bed, in his room quietly, working on embroidering runes into a blouse, as he paces, too heated to register that she was sitting in his space, following him a little bit after he had excused himself in a right hurry. "She knew who you were all this time and did nothing?"

"Do you think this shade of magenta looks good with this green?"

"Sadistic, that woman is sadistic—"

"Maybe the thread is too shiny?"

"—What kind of...Why aren't you more bothered by this?"

"This blouse is for my cousin, I want to make sure the embroidery is pretty and useful."

He presses his lips together, gathering what's left of his wits, "Aren't you mad? Weren't you always close with her back at the abbey?"

Ximena sighs, shrugging her shoulders. "It's complicated."

"Why didn't she say anything? Why didn't she tell your father—her son?"

"If you're trying to find reason in anything my grandmother does, you'll be searching for centuries." She threads a new needle, "It's private. Family business."