She and Piper hide on the crown of a minaret, feet dangling
over the sides, tunics and hair rumpled by increasingly strong winds. Piper
tells her stories of the illustrations carved in the archways of the palace’s
doors. They are such intricate stories, so well told, that she feels as though
she and Piper and in the garden with the patch of pumpkins, they are wandering
down a path of lady’s slippers and daisies and calla lilies that smell sweet
and charming.
The wind whips her hair, snarls it like a basketful of
snakes. “Have you been practicing?”
In answer Piper plucks a leaf from the bushes behind them,
turning to her companion and holding it aloft, turning it this way and that
with showmanship, as though presenting the illusion to an audience. She narrows
her eyes at the leaf, which does not move for a long time. Both girls are
completely still, only their clothes and hair writhing in the increasing gusts
of wind. Slowly the leaf twists, spiraling deliberately until it has been
twisted into a long line of dark pointed ridges and pale green veins. Piper
releases a breath and the leaf unravels, returning to its original state though
slightly more limp and sags forward.
“Very good,” she remarks.
Piper releases the leaf, which is snatched by a breeze and tumbles
away. “Thank you. I should practice more. I haven’t had the time. It isn’t as
good as it should be.”
“It was well done. Practice will only help you so much.
After that there is nothing to be done or added to.”
Piper looks up at her. “You spend hours practicing, it looks
so manageable when you do it. Yet you still practice. There must always be more
to do. Especially with your natural talent.”
She clasps her hands in her lap. “There is always more to
learn. It is not necessarily a good thing, father always strives for perfection
and I am a disappointment if I am anything but.”
Piper begins to speak, to refute her friend’s statement or
to reassure her, they will never know. The wind howls and throws them both off
balance, sending to the side while clinging to the lattice on the underside of
the cupola beneath them, narrowly avoiding tipping off the minaret entirely.
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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