She sat in the prince’s antechamber for four hours, and when she was finally allowed in, she was told she had five minutes. She simply had to succeed.īut fail she did. If she failed…well, she couldn’t think about that. Her sole concern was convincing the Prince of the danger. On the day in question, she had slept on her hair rather oddly it stood up in the back and was parted unevenly in the middle. Persimmon was not bad looking, but she had no idea how to present herself. She walked along the road, cinching her coat more tightly around her, though it was not yet cold out. She kept bumbling over her words (though she was only talking to herself, practicing what she was going to say before his royal highness) and stumbling over her shoes. On that day, Persimmon had not been nervous she had been utterly terrified. That’s when Persimmon had gone to see the Prince. And that’s how it all began.Īctually, it had all started four months ago. So that’s where Persimmon lay down to sleep. And, well, it was as good a place as any. And the log in the woods was big enough for her to shimmy into, and still dry. But it only dawned on her rather late in the day, as she noticed her body shaking, that she must find some place to sleep. This was rather silly of her, given that food and shelter and not freezing to death were higher priorities than merriment. She watched them sail or, as often as not, crash, as they skipped from puddle to puddle in the gathering current. Her favorite invention today was floating leaves like boats along the streams of rain and pretending they were galleons, seeking their fortunes. And despite the cold, despite the rain, despite the utter misery of the day, she was soon making up games, which she could not help but do wherever she went. To keep warm, Persimmon took to the road, where mud puddles were beginning to gather. But this story is not about Raven it’s about her kinder, and currently shivering, sister. “More like singular meanness,” Persimmon said aloud, throwing a stone against a fence post. Some would say she was crazy or, more generously, “singular in her eccentric stubbornness.” That’s what Persimmon’s dad had said about Raven, smiling and trying to speak well of his eldest daughter. Still, Persimmon knew better than to try to knock on the door. But alas, not for very long, and especially not when the drizzle turns into rain and the rain feels like daggers of sleet. Feeling sorry for ourselves helps us feel better, of course…for a little while. I know that.” She managed to say this with a conviction of utter confidence while also feeling terribly sorry for herself. “Wonderful sister, thank you,” she said, pulling her thin sweater around her as the autumn wind-which was quickly becoming winter wind-whipped around her. “But I’m not lying,” she mumbled as she collapsed in a heap onto the stairs. As if she could ever forget her father’s passing. And she had already been feeling terrible all day, for it was full moon after harvest, and that reminded her of her father’s passing. This was a pity, for it was starting to drizzle, and she already had a cold. The door slammed, and Persimmon was left alone in the cold. “And you’ll not come back in until you STOP TELLING LIES!”
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