- We’re living in the golden age
- even without feathers
- and now so am I
- God I love you. You’re so pretty.
- trembling with paralysis
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Fleur’s father settled on the satin sheets between us, clipboard in hand. He smoothed the curling points of his mustache and then plucked a quill from the crest on his turban.
“True or false,” he began. “We’re living in the golden age of calligraphy.”
“False,” Fleur said confidently. Her father chortled indulgently and marked her response with an ironically elaborate symbol. Penmanship remained the most vital way for warlords of their clan to command respect, and any aspirant factional leader learned how to fashion suitable styli even without feathers for quills. Learned young.
He looked at me sternly for the next question. “You’re full of blank, and now so am I.”
I found myself unable to think of anything except the responses I should *not* say out loud, until finally I stammered, “C-cracker crumbs?”
The leathery face of my warlord-in-law leaned closer. “God I love you. You’re so pretty. But, no. That’s wrong.” One of his bodyguards raised a slender tube to his mouth and I felt the blowdart’s sting on my neck. “And as you’re fully aware, incorrect responses must not be permitted.”
I sat there, nude, with a doily on my lap, trembling with paralysis and dreading the penalty I must pay.
bonus points for using them in order