[ Do her hands still have five fingers each? It's starting to feel like more, scratching against him in unknown sequences. Flies buzz behind her voice—the black kind, not the ones that drink from flowers—a thousand misshapen and miniscule throats trying to copy her words and getting them just slightly wrong.
He has to search the distortion to understand her, but he still does.
He still does.
And there's just one more thing he has to ask of her, very important. ]
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He has to search the distortion to understand her, but he still does.
He still does.
And there's just one more thing he has to ask of her, very important. ]
Don't tell him I've been doing this.
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she doesn't ask what he means. she nods against him again, so he feels her do it, and cards her fingers slowly through his hair.
shh, shh, goes the murmur. ]
I won't, Ivan. You have my word.