Blackbeak Bluff i wonder if she misses me, probably not

She glances to him as he lifts his head, the beginnings of a smile tugging at her lips as she hears his question. French, The inkstain answers quietly, looking back out over the cliffs. My father's native tongue — the language of love, he used to say. She laughs softly.
Do you like it? She wonders, resisting the urge to steal another glance at him. He is kind of cute, isn't he? Oh, but — what a thought! She dismisses it quickly, ears flushing a little, and chalks it up to her emotional state; she's vulnerable, she's needy, she's young and impulsive and this is another ill-advised way to cope. This grief will drive her mad, she thinks.