3.15b

Scarmarella dances with me in the moonlight of new days and old. Turn, we, in the night of a snapping black hoarfrost. Spin, I yell; spin, Scarmarella, and she throws herself, fast as wit and faster still, until my eyes are full of her cool black lines, pure in the moonlight. Her hair wraps around her head, but on the reversal I see the glint of her smile in the cool of a quiet. Moment. Scarmarella mine, but soon another's, for we are both children of the day. Born under a sweaty sky, was I. Born on a tossing sea, was she. We match, like a set of saucers too long used, and taken out of our cupboard, we steal the night for our own. No light for Scarmarella, mine. No light for her to lift and twist. No light for me, or she, or I. No light, no light. No.

But.

The spin stops. Her hair falls around her shoulders, and she sweeps it from her eyes. Her umber skin sinks deep in the night. My aching breast beats twice and twice and twice and twice left right left right left right left right. I swear she hears it in my voice; I say "My Scar--," She says
But nothing. She has no words. She pulls me over, holds me tight, and whispers quiet to me there: "I'm leaving soon. I'll see you, swear. On bones and birth and sand and surf, on quiet, loud, and home, and hearth." Her voice breaks fair. The new day ends, the old begins. She walks away before my before my before my heart explodes.

Done stealing night, we day again, but for a time, until the night looms and the moon draws nigh, when Scar my Scar my Scarmarella will meet in darkness here with
I.