The look she casts him is amused, and the explanation for that immediately follows: “You are, but probably someone else would have in time if it weren't so new. Mostly they've been saying are you truly living in that fucking awful thing with their eyes and not seeing this far.”
But she's doing a poor job of tamping down how pleased she is by fairytale witch's tower, and she thinks Morrigan and Kieran would have to love it — will love it, when she sees them again, as she's sure she will. Maybe Kieran still has his articulated dragon; it would make for an excellent display piece, now that at nearly Matthias's age he's probably much too grown and serious to play with it.
“But she suits me,” patting the banister of the last spiral staircase, “and I think she's beautiful. Up here.”
From the uppermost point of La Souveraineté, they can see clear across the harbor to the city of chains, to Flint's Walrus docked on the other side, up to Hightown, high above. Gwenaëlle nocks an arrow and sights along it, and there's no— moment. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't seem to think about it, just lifts her bow and the moment she needs there to be a string to pull there just is, shimmering and unreal and requiring all the draw power of anything more mundane. Ice magic glitters and cools the air, and when she looses the bow — aimed directly into the sea, where it's unlikely to do more harm than give a fish a bad day — that same magic streaks behind it, leaves a patch of ice in the water. At this distance and with the precision of the shot knifing beneath the surface it's nearly the only way to tell where it's gone.
Critically, “I need to practise accommodating the blind spot, still.”
no subject
But she's doing a poor job of tamping down how pleased she is by fairytale witch's tower, and she thinks Morrigan and Kieran would have to love it — will love it, when she sees them again, as she's sure she will. Maybe Kieran still has his articulated dragon; it would make for an excellent display piece, now that at nearly Matthias's age he's probably much too grown and serious to play with it.
“But she suits me,” patting the banister of the last spiral staircase, “and I think she's beautiful. Up here.”
From the uppermost point of La Souveraineté, they can see clear across the harbor to the city of chains, to Flint's Walrus docked on the other side, up to Hightown, high above. Gwenaëlle nocks an arrow and sights along it, and there's no— moment. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't seem to think about it, just lifts her bow and the moment she needs there to be a string to pull there just is, shimmering and unreal and requiring all the draw power of anything more mundane. Ice magic glitters and cools the air, and when she looses the bow — aimed directly into the sea, where it's unlikely to do more harm than give a fish a bad day — that same magic streaks behind it, leaves a patch of ice in the water. At this distance and with the precision of the shot knifing beneath the surface it's nearly the only way to tell where it's gone.
Critically, “I need to practise accommodating the blind spot, still.”