Cerulean Cape winterlied

mahler's ears swept forward with some small quiver of derision; he had not merely been sitting, but composing. yet he felt such a distinction would be woefully lost on the frenetic little beast; he let go the temptation to correct her and rolled his shoulders in a smooth shrug. she came alive with delight in the next moment, which perplexed mahler.
"donnelaith." he mulled the syllables over in his tones, rolling them across his tongue like small smooth pebbles. had he been alone, mahler might have repeated the gaelic until it became nonsense in his mouth; however, today he was not. fixing the girl with the stony lilac of his stare, the musiker let the silence prolong until he proffered "no." it was a generous day for speaking, by mahler's standards.