• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 11
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Her hand is delicate, porcelain, untouched by the silver curse that charged the rest of her body. The hand plucks all the strings it can reach: an octave. The islands—you know the ones I speak of—are the exotic fruit we smuggled through customs last year from a different place: colorful, strange, and delicious. I want to ask her if she has ever graced these places, ever plied her harp at the resorts where heads of silver hair are blown by the sea breeze. I want to say to her, “What’s your favorite fruit? Mine’s oranges.” She turns toward me, as though she can read my mind, her mask confronting me with its intransigence. Angrily, a raft of bubbles bursts forth from the mask. She turns back to her harp, bows her head, and plucks away.