Storm Watch Butte Melbourne

her lashes lowered, some soft shyness woven into the curve of her cheek as she dipped her head toward him. a greeting given not in words at first but in posture; the gentle tilt of her slim frame, the pliancy of a maiden’s manner.

margarida, she offered at last, the syllables spun in the lilting music of her tongue. magui, if you prefer. a hush of voice, threaded through with an accent that made the common words stumble and sway.

she looked to the butte then, its jagged face cut against sky, and thought of how he had said it— beautiful, but quiet. the quiet was not what she sought. her own body thinned from travel, her hearth still unmade.

i have no pack, her admission fell light, though the truth pressed heavier in her breast. green eyes flickered back to him, a ripple of something curious, wistful. perhaps… your verapaz. you will tell me?