Day 70, Season of Summer, 507 AV
"I don't wanna practice, papa." Kit kept her voice cold. "Not now."
"That's fine." Her white-haired father had caught her just outside the house, door half-opened, one foot already out the door. Kit stared back over her shoulder, eyes narrow, chewing on her bottom lip. "No magic today, then. I'd like to talk instead. Can we talk?"
Kit drummed fingers on her thigh. She owed him nothing. He had proven himself worse than trustworthy. There was no reason to give him anything at all. "Fine," she said. "Someplace where there's lots of people." He winced before her obvious distrust, but she did not waver.
Slow breath in, slow breath out. "Very well," he said, looking to the side. "So long as it's not the garden again." Kit pushed onward, crossing her arms as she walked, her plans for the day shifting as she tried to find an accommodation for her father in her plans. Why had she said yes? Kit blew a hair out of her eyes and shook her head, she could still tell he to leave off. She could still march away, climb over some high thing and give him the finger.
But she didn't. Kit crossed her arms and closed her eyes. Damn me thrice, when did I turn into such a Daddy's girl?
After a few careless turns down a street made of whipping fabric Kit found what she was looking for. The Sanity Center, right next to the maw of Alvadas' mouth, visitors coming and going in a steady stream. Kit saw the colorful outfit of the Speakers; it still made a part of her squirm to see it, but it had been a long time she had done something worthy of their ire, so she dismissed the feeling. If something went wrong, they would be on her side this time.
Kit took a seat by the road, grabbed a handful of vaguely spherical stones off the side of the road and laid them alongside her. She gave her father no instruction.
He turned his tired face down to look at her, eyes sad . . . Or perhaps that was just how his eyes always were? Regardless, he took a seat opposite hers, twitchy. Was he reluctant, or was he wary of upsetting her? She chose to believe that it was the later. Kit plucked a stone from the ground, tossed it from one hand to the other, one the other, then over her head to land in the other again. "Kit," her father said. "What are you doing?"
"Practicing my juggling," Kit said, her voice carefully mild. "What did you want to talk about?"
