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The sunset was red. Eugenides sat on the rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, looking out at the burning red and warm orange and comforting pinks surrounded by the deep, dark unending blue of the sky. It was nice on the rooftop, bathed in the quiet light of the setting sun, peaceful, calm. No one would find him here. No one would think to look for him in the place his mother fell to her death a week ago.
The red earrings glinted cheekily on the altar. Eugenides wondered who would see them. Someone would surely notice, Eugenides was going to start a collection.
Eugenides squeezed his eyes shut, the insides of his eyelids red against the light. He focused on that, on the starbursts that erupted as he rubbed his eyes hard with his fists. He would not cry. He refused to cry. His grandfather was dead, and he felt terribly alone.
Hellen grinned, her face red with exertion.
“Again?” she asked.
Eugenides would never be a soldier, but training could be a lot of fun with the right partner.
“Again,” he agreed, raising his practice sword.
Eugenides cackled to himself as he tied a strand of red yarn onto another of Ornon’s sheep. Stealing a flock was child's play for the Thief of Eddis.
The blade fell, and red blood flowed despite the tourniquet.
Attolia smiled, her lips still painted red, though she had already changed into a sheer white nightdress.
“My Queen,” Eugenides said as he climbed through her window.
“My King,” she replied, and they kissed.