Blackwater Islands Nevermind an SMS.

not’ing to tell about. sobeille countered sulkily, recovering only her flat expression. as for her anticipations and hopes — ah, well. there would be other men, and other distantly apportioned cliffs neatly lined up with their passage.

reading a sense of conflict in val’s expression, sobeille relented — if only because she did not wish val to flap his mouth at maman. ’e told me about de flowers dat grow there. she hoped to pause at that, but val’s canted ear suggested he expected elaboration.

as long as he did not ask about her; as long as his focus was on the man. stupid, gullible val. sobeille saw her shot, and dug in. dere are flowers dat only grow on in certain places. on certain t’ings. like coastal flowers, dey do okay wit’ de salt and stone - but meadow flowers need higher acidity. some of this was her own learned knowledge, some of it the piecemeal education she’d received from haizel before he came along. all she wove into an earnest story. dere was yarrow dat was a different color den back home. e told me you can eat it, an’ it helps wit’ de fever. but its leaves can also be used to stop bleedin’. why one would ever want to stop the gorgeous torrent of blood flowing freely over stone, sobeille did not know.

an’ you ‘ad to chase ‘im away, sobeille added none-too-subtly, a practiced expression of surliness easing over her gestures as she flicked her gaze over him to see if he was stupid enough to take it hook, line, and sinker.