“Is it not right?” I asked, resting the storybook on my lap and a finger to mark the page. And with a degree of anxiety I observed the girl lying by my side. It was a small bed, but we both needed not a lot of space. And though there was another across the room, it had long served as a storage for the unusual trinkets and accumulated souvenirs my pledge-sister was fond of. But I reflected, here upon this bed lay another strange sort, a thing that I adored.

Galanthus stirred, but still she lay on her side, and stared at me with that all too familiar look. Supposedly, some people thought her intense stare unnerving. Funny that. Funny, for it was these very eyes that ever held me, and from which I sourced my endless amusement. Even as a favorite book one could read over and over again untiringly, or that perfect poem to stir our heart with roses when all else in the world seems gray and dark.

But of course, I was biased. Of course, I favored her more than others. And where others see threats and eeriness, I see expectant puppy dog eyes that one could but love.

So naturally I afforded her my patience until she felt fit to address my question. Nothing strange there. For she likes to think things over, and she knew I did not mind her silence.

“Why?” she asked in turn.

“Why? You looked displeased. It was all wrong, then, the way I read.”

Imperceptible to aught’s eyes but mine alone, she frowned. To most people, her expression would not have changed in the slightest. Nor had the faintest of lines formed on her flawless face that I adored. Not one audible sign escaped her tight lips. And yet I could see it. All as clear as beholding oneself in a mirror while knowing the secret thoughts not reflected therein.

And because Galanthus misliked such questions. Those that I could not help but ask anyway.

“Not that,” she said, then looked away, breaking her steady gaze. “You know I do not mind.”

But she did. She minded it more than anything.

And yet, without fail she would always ask me to read to her on restless nights. For I had loved these bedtime stories once, and once I had read to her every night. I misliked them now. Not that I would ever tell her. How could I? Only I was conscious of it. I could not tell the stories as well now. Nor would I ever again. And she knew it as I knew it.

It is all wrong.

But I self-indulged. It could not be that all her problems find their cause in me, though they often did.

“What then?” I asked, waiting for her to look at me again. “Is it what Valerian told you earlier? That she would pledge with Wisteria Loredan?”

“Yes,” she said without the usual pause.

It was not that her answer came aught more candid than usual. There was not a pleasant way to invoke the topic.

“Do you hate her?”

She thought it over, then put it flatly, “She hated me.”

It was rare for her to hint at things in such a roundabout way. Could it be that it wasn’t a hint? But I allowed myself a pause, and shrunk from the pursuit of that line of thought. I was not ready to discuss it, and perhaps never would. Yet I must.

In the end, I gave up, and let my mind wander from the unpleasant thing.

The moonlight was bright, too bright tonight, so that there mayhap wasn’t any need for the candle at all. Only Galanthus found the silver light lonely, and preferred the warm glow of fire. That warm light was dancing now on her scales, glimmering on her tail that coiled round from behind, resting the tapered end on my calves. It was cool to the touch, and would wiggle from time to time. Not that she was restless, she rarely is, but it was her way of endearment, was caressing and loving, for a girl so timid with own affection.

Resting her face on her little hands, she did not look at me now but dreamily towards some faraway sky. I wondered if the topic disturbed her as much as it had me. I really wondered at that. For she was never one to mind antagonization. And it is only insecure or already well-loved people who dread rivalry in such a way. She is neither of these.

I tried to change the topic, and played with her smooth locks - so smooth they fell like water between the cracks of my fingers. And I weaved them over her horns, draping and making knots of them on the ivory pair.

“Galanthus,” I said, threading with one hand, “What say you we sort out my bed?”

She started. “Why?” with an unchanged tone or expression, she asked anxiously.

“Nothing,” I chuckled at her silliness, that she could possibly think I would wish for my own bed again. I made myself break away from her lovely, sleepy face to glance over our cluttered cabin. Warmly colored tapestries cover all the visible parts of the walls. Funny-looking charms, wind chimes and exotic beads hung about the porthole; statuettes ranging from wooden naked tribe women to marble fantastical beasts lurked or posed on the shelves. And half a dozen strangely sculpted chairs: rockers, stools and hassocks scattered all over the floor. A private chamber where one could not pace around so much as navigate. Not that we two required much space, and seldom did we welcome visitors.

“Only,” I said, returning to her, “what we stuffed in there rarely see the light of day anyway. And the other day when I went to lend Litzia the book she asked me, I got a look at her room. There’s positively nothing there. Almost a vacant room save a little flower vase. It was quite depressing. I have a mind that we could force on them something to liven it up.”

“Sure,” Galanthus said carelessly. I did not think she really minded. She liked collecting more than she did keeping. Or even preserving. And of the various furniture and random decors of ours, few were without chips, cracks or unbroken in some ways. Nor was she clumsy, but rather it was the sentiments carried in such objects that she cared for, not their curious appearance.

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“But it could be that they prefer it that way,” she added.

“No, I don’t think. You know Aster, she’s quite careless of her own wants. And I think she keeps to her ascetic way only out of habit. As for Litzia... well, suppose you can say she’s not into commitments. So, someone has to do something about those two.”

“Do it then. Give them the effigies we bought last month - the quite hideous ones - on the morrow.” Her lids were now half-closed.

“Ah.” A feeling came over me. “Tomorrow would not do.”

“Why?”

It was less of a feeling. I did not “feel” that way anymore, not for the things belonged to that faraway past. Not in the sentimental way a normal person would recall old memories. A logical conclusion, more like? Something one surmises, drawing up from facts and unsentimental knowledge. I knew as someone who smells the storm in the wind, but could not fear it, for having never experienced one in person. But Galanthus understood.

“I feel Wisteria would call for me tomorrow.”

And she did not doubt it. There was only an inaudible, invisible sigh.

“Do you hate her?” I asked, suddenly returning to the unpleasant topic. There was no way around it. “I said some unkind things to her that day at the Sanctuary. It was not right. I owe her another chance.”

“She was being mean too.” And for a while, during her pause, she would flick and play absentmindedly at the knots I had made of her hair on her horns. “She hates me. And she hates you too.”

I shrugged. ‘Twas true. “She has every right to. I would have too, if not because...” I left the sentence hanging in the air. It needed not be said.

“And every right to hate me. Her very name reminds me of it,” she said vaguely, but what she meant I knew too well.

And so that was what it was: the cause of her foul mood at last. The thing that stood like a curse between us.

“Is that why you are against her joining our ala? Valerian would not like that reason.”

“To Under with her.”

“Be charitable, my own. You know how Valerian is, to a fault.”

Galanthus buried her head in the pillow and whimpered. She knew it. But also she was frustrated and unreasonably angry at Valerian, as unreasonable as any ordinary person should be. Even so, Valerian was our friend. And my pledge-sister misliked showing me what she thought unbecoming anger for a friend. Though, it bears repeating, she had the right to it.

“You don’t dislike Wisteria then?” I shifted the topic again.

She lifted her head slightly, peering out at me.

“I sympathize with her.”

“Do you?” I started, and was not a bit disheartened. Mayhap she was not blind to all my flaws after all.

“If you left me, like you did her, I would hate you too.”

I laughed. A laugh that annoyed her much, though she knew the reason for which I was so amused.

“I can’t ever leave you then,” I said, “I can’t possibly live while being hated by you, or even unloved.”

“You can’t?”

It was, of course, an unnecessary question. And like most things between us, she already knew the answer. But unnecessary questions are sometimes necessary in their own way.

“Of course I can’t!” Not laughing now, I indulged in the softness of her pale cheeks with my hands, imagining without seeing that they blushed.

She shook her head within my grasp, letting fall the locks I had draped over her horns. “It’s all right,” she said, “it’s all right. I will pretend she’s a flea.” She thought it over. “I dislike fleas though.”

I let go of her and moved the book on my lap to the end table, disturbing the miniature tree upon it.

“Don’t blow the candle,” she murmured.

And so we tucked in with the light still on.

“But you know,” I said, “You needn’t go with me tomorrow.”

“I need to.”

“Wisteria can be difficult to handle, well, but she’s not stupid. The captain is here, and I am her alaris, whether she likes it or not.”

“Things could happen... People can be stupid.”

“I shall make haste, I promise. Even before lunch I shall come back.”

Galanthus sighed. This time audibly, though it was infinitely soft, as though she had slipped into sleep.

“If you don’t, I will hate you.”

“You will. To be fair though...”

And this time, the feeling was stronger, though it was not quite a feeling still, only a sure fact that I was almost certain of. Assured by that person I once was. And it drew a peculiar and unexpected parallel. It just felt right. If feeling it indeed was.

“You know,” I said it aloud, “Wisteria is not that bad. She’s even quite like one of the few persons you-”

But already my dear pledge-sister was drawing even breaths. And her face had softened into such a peaceful sight that I could not help but stare at length amidst forgotten words. How insignificant are the things that make us happy! And how easily we may be deprived of them, though we love them expiringly and desperately. For I fell asleep soon after. And long was the night that followed, that I should have stayed awake a little longer.

All the things that we did not do. All the things that we could not.

When I came to, the concept of time had passed me by. And I lay in inertness, unsure for how long that I had slept. As though a thousand years had passed and long had it ceased to matter which day or what hour.

As ever I had, I turned to look at Galanthus, but she was not there, and that side of the bed close to the wall was all empty and cold. A chill pierced through me. And the only thing which prevented a panic was the familiar soft breaths of my pledge-sister.

She was on the wrong side, and was sitting on the floor. Her head rested on the end table. The awkward repose afforded no peace upon her pale face.

I was afraid. I would never have roused her so violently otherwise. But I did and, being started awake, she stared back with fright.

She frightened me also. For a second, her listless limbs seemed to jerk away - would have, if not for she was still half-asleep. And even when it had passed, the stricken way she looked at me did not change.

“What is wrong? Galanthus? What are you doing? Why do you look at me so?” A great tremor shook my voice.

And there she broke down, and she flung at me, even with still halting and unsure movements. But she was all over me, and so tightly did she embrace, that in my strangely weakened state I was hurt. And how small she was, this wyverness that many feared and scorned, who seemed to have been shaken and frightened. And I became angered - was wroth at whatever despicable vermin who had dared render her so.

And, deep down, I knew that vermin was naught but myself.

So together we let freely flow the tears.

For we were those who had hurt and were hurt.

And for how easily a change in the wind could threaten our flawed happiness verily so.