Cerulean Cape Owl

lestan did not like this, did not care for how riordan was speaking. there was no offense in it, nothing that would indicate that the mayfair should react. and yet all the same his hackles wished to flare, for there was an intimacy in how this perfect stranger spoke of lestan's golden wife!
the vagueness; i've been many things to her.
something reverie needed to say.
something he had put off, and now lestan could only assume it looked at him now through the eyes of this man. he knew. lestan knew, and he could hardly fathom it.
riordan spoke and his truth reached into the haunted heart of the witchling spawn. how could he know? and yet he did. "sicker and sicker. she t-tried to hide it, several times. but —"
but it was why lestan lived in a state of sickened worry over reverie, why he had barely thought of touching her; not for lack of want but excess of panic, solidified each time he caught the scent of her bleeding.
"i'm hoping she will see a healer, at saltshore. the one our leader in the creek sent to us, well; we didn't ask for him and he g-gave reverie something, wouldn't tell me. i wanted to kill him."