THE OLDEST DANCE by Misba

Author:Misba
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nomad's Forge

19. A Glimpse into the Darkness

W

HILE MEERA GOES TO THE kitchen to bring the saffron-kheer, the Monk stays near the crib. The baby is now fully awake from the monsoon thunder. That’s when the Monk hears it—the jingle of some bells—delicate and dissimilar from the usual sounds of bells. He recognizes it. That gold pair always created special frequencies. Though, he hears only one of them now as the feet thump the stairs, coming down from the manor’s attic.

He saw a staircase at the backyard portico, spiraling its way straight to the roof. Soon, the Monk sees a hooded figure through the wooden screen in the dining room. She is wearing a dark outfit covering down to her knees. Pink stripes running along it, and the hood has a pair of pink cat ears, some fringes of blue hair visible through the hood. Her face is covered with a mask; it glitters pink in the light. Her legs bare from her knees, and one leg holds the anklet. The piece of gold looks strange with that sort of … costume? Must be a costume of a comic-book heroine. A rain protection in her hand is ready to be launched.

The heir, the Monk remembers what Meera said that day in the hospital. He stands in the dining room, right along with the kitchen, a week-old baby held in his hands.

However, the heir, the Intuitionist, doesn’t notice the Monk. Her mind is busy at the thoughts of escaping the manor as quickly as possible. It should be easier now since Meera is occupied with her guests around this time. If she gets caught, Meera will make her greet the guests; or worse—Meera will start telling how she passed her driving test with no red dots on her report. Kusha approaches the lawn, but, to her bad luck, Meera’s voice stops her.

“Where are you going in the rain?”

Shit! “Um, to a cosplay competition?” she says, more in a questioning tone, as if asking for permission while informing.

“You mean to the Old City,” Meera says still from the kitchen.

“Um, yes, the Old City,” Kusha says from the portico, sounding a little guilty. “There is a three-hundred thousand credit prize for the tenth winner!” she adds, trying to convince Meera like most daughters would—assuring parents with the useful aspects of whatever seemingly-useless stuff they’re doing.

“Tenth winner, you say?” Meera says while serving kheer in an ornate clay bowl—diced cashew sprinkled on the top, and three stigmas from a saffron flower taken from her garden earlier, placed at the center. “What’s wrong with the first prize?” She looks in the direction of the portico, done with her kheer serving.

Kusha rolls her eyes; eye-rolling is rude, but Meera doesn’t see it because of the wooden screen. She wears her shoes, sitting on the porch. “First prize is a tour to a war hero’s house,” she says. “That’s, um, useless?”

“Uh-ha?” Meera says, ignoring the look at the Monk’s face as he holds the baby like an amateur old man who would rather hold weapons or books, even logs or lion cubs, but not a baby.

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