It begins with a sound like falling leaves. Like sweet voices rising in harmony, like the bellow of thunder in the night.
Wind, soft as silk, rises and blows through the Temple. It plays, it whips, it pulls and tugs at Amalia's hair and clothing. A sigh of a god. A breath of life.
"She lives. Do not apologise for her folly."
Vi stands not upon the altar, not before the baker, but at one of the windows of the Temple, gazing outside at the moonlight. His stern countenance is unchanged, but there is something troubled in his deep, dark gaze.
Rain patters outside.
"You have called for me all your years, young one. What is it, then, that you wish to say?"
Wind, soft as silk, rises and blows through the Temple. It plays, it whips, it pulls and tugs at Amalia's hair and clothing. A sigh of a god. A breath of life.
"She lives. Do not apologise for her folly."
Vi stands not upon the altar, not before the baker, but at one of the windows of the Temple, gazing outside at the moonlight. His stern countenance is unchanged, but there is something troubled in his deep, dark gaze.
Rain patters outside.
"You have called for me all your years, young one. What is it, then, that you wish to say?"
VI
