Father Stephan was wrong, Fio, I am not God's child, whoever that god may be. I belong to Bast, and I do as I please. And I say it is no sin. ? Ali bin Raza al-Amat
She lay quietly beside him in their borrowed bed in their borrowed apartment, listening to the steady, even sound of his breathing and the sedate thrum of his heartbeat. It was a mild, late-spring night, still fragrant and cool enough for it to be pleasant with the windows open. Before they?d joined to gasp aloud their commingled song of joy and need, he?d raised one of the sashes enough to lure in a breeze that carried with it the scent of the greenery used to forge a den-realm out of a lowly, landscaped, rooftop deck. Pampas grass and boxwood whispered a bedtime story to the roosting chickens, who fussed quietly within the safety of their star-strewn coop. Water burbled contra-tenor in the little koi-pond, and the found-item wind chimes she?d made and brought from the Studio tinkled the soprano. In some distant corner of WestEnd, the Rave raved on, far enough away this night to avoid the discordant buzz of vibrating glass in the windowpanes. Altogether, the combination of sounds made a pleasant backdrop to the susurration of his body in exhausted sleep.
Fio waited until he was good and soundly and deeply immersed in slumber before carefully easing out of his arms. This was a multi-staged process, for she desired greatly not to awaken him. He stirred once, and she froze, waiting him out until he slipped beneath the drowsy surface again. A quarter of an hour passed after that, before she felt confident that he wouldn?t miss her and managed her magician?s escape into the dark hallway.
There were three bedrooms in the apartment, ranging down the barrel of the long passage that led from the living room. On the farthest end facing west, stood the master bedroom where Ali lay sleeping. Two, smaller bedrooms and a bath hunkered on the east-facing side of the hall, overlooking the deck. The guest room nearest the living room had been rearranged to accommodate her cello, stand and chair from the studio, which filled the open space between the bed and closet. It was this room she crept to, first.
Her studio had always been the repository of her treasures, but when her stalker?s predations had forced her to flee she?d had only enough time to select a few small items to take with her. They were arguably the most special of all of her keepsakes, mementos of the days before Antony had done his worst and everything she?d held dear in life had spiraled away from her outstretched hands. These tiny items were now hidden away safe in the cello case, wrapped in an embroidered silk scarf that had been a present from Tara, once upon a happier time.
Stealthy as a thief, she cracked open the case and retrieved the little bundle. It was so light, its contents so insignificantly small, that there might not be anything there at all. She held the bundle to her chest and tiptoed back up the hallway, past the guest bathroom to the second guest-room opposite their bedchamber.
The door was closed. No bed, no rest for the weary visitor here. The room had been transformed into a shrine to his goddess. Heavy curtains all-around barred the possibility of light creeping in unwanted while free-wicked brass lamps burnt continuously, day and night. The scent of oil-smoke mingled with the heady perfume of myrrh and frankincense to tickle the nose. She turned the knob very quietly to slip inside. A tricksy breeze from their open window slunk in on her heels to make the lamp flames sputter over the intrusion. Hastily, she pressed the door just shy of the click of the latch behind her and held her breath for a count of ten. When she turned, Bast was waiting.
(To be continued)
She lay quietly beside him in their borrowed bed in their borrowed apartment, listening to the steady, even sound of his breathing and the sedate thrum of his heartbeat. It was a mild, late-spring night, still fragrant and cool enough for it to be pleasant with the windows open. Before they?d joined to gasp aloud their commingled song of joy and need, he?d raised one of the sashes enough to lure in a breeze that carried with it the scent of the greenery used to forge a den-realm out of a lowly, landscaped, rooftop deck. Pampas grass and boxwood whispered a bedtime story to the roosting chickens, who fussed quietly within the safety of their star-strewn coop. Water burbled contra-tenor in the little koi-pond, and the found-item wind chimes she?d made and brought from the Studio tinkled the soprano. In some distant corner of WestEnd, the Rave raved on, far enough away this night to avoid the discordant buzz of vibrating glass in the windowpanes. Altogether, the combination of sounds made a pleasant backdrop to the susurration of his body in exhausted sleep.
Fio waited until he was good and soundly and deeply immersed in slumber before carefully easing out of his arms. This was a multi-staged process, for she desired greatly not to awaken him. He stirred once, and she froze, waiting him out until he slipped beneath the drowsy surface again. A quarter of an hour passed after that, before she felt confident that he wouldn?t miss her and managed her magician?s escape into the dark hallway.
There were three bedrooms in the apartment, ranging down the barrel of the long passage that led from the living room. On the farthest end facing west, stood the master bedroom where Ali lay sleeping. Two, smaller bedrooms and a bath hunkered on the east-facing side of the hall, overlooking the deck. The guest room nearest the living room had been rearranged to accommodate her cello, stand and chair from the studio, which filled the open space between the bed and closet. It was this room she crept to, first.
Her studio had always been the repository of her treasures, but when her stalker?s predations had forced her to flee she?d had only enough time to select a few small items to take with her. They were arguably the most special of all of her keepsakes, mementos of the days before Antony had done his worst and everything she?d held dear in life had spiraled away from her outstretched hands. These tiny items were now hidden away safe in the cello case, wrapped in an embroidered silk scarf that had been a present from Tara, once upon a happier time.
Stealthy as a thief, she cracked open the case and retrieved the little bundle. It was so light, its contents so insignificantly small, that there might not be anything there at all. She held the bundle to her chest and tiptoed back up the hallway, past the guest bathroom to the second guest-room opposite their bedchamber.
The door was closed. No bed, no rest for the weary visitor here. The room had been transformed into a shrine to his goddess. Heavy curtains all-around barred the possibility of light creeping in unwanted while free-wicked brass lamps burnt continuously, day and night. The scent of oil-smoke mingled with the heady perfume of myrrh and frankincense to tickle the nose. She turned the knob very quietly to slip inside. A tricksy breeze from their open window slunk in on her heels to make the lamp flames sputter over the intrusion. Hastily, she pressed the door just shy of the click of the latch behind her and held her breath for a count of ten. When she turned, Bast was waiting.
(To be continued)