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Summary
“Why don’t we cover more ground then? Search for at least half an hour and whoever finds her first can bring her back here. And then we can savour what’s left of the afterparty.”
It all sounded like a decent idea, right up to this very moment where Henry has to contemplate whether or not to approach the shadow connected to the oxidized statue of Artemis, the perfect hiding spot for a black dress.
He squints closer on the antsy movement; a great expanse of skin provided by her backless gown that almost feels wrong to see so clearly lacking any winged protrusions. Curled in on herself, secretive underneath the protective penumbra of a coppery teal-coloured Olympian.
There’s a sprinkle of satinette feathers enlaced in her hair, easily mistaken for something as soft as snowflakes or icing sugar.
At the ironic risk of being struck down by an arrow himself (poised motionless in Artemis’ fingers, oddly pinpointed right at him), he nears closer. Dusting up on his French that foremostly recalls to him in Charles Baudelair stanzas.
Losing patience, truthfully without meaning her to hear, he mumbles to himself. “Un cygne qui s’était évadé de sa cage.” ✭
But she sharpens up like a plucked string.