where the thorns grow

CHAPTER FOUR,

CHAPTER FOUR | WHERE THE THORNS GROW

HERALD AND ROBERT had left a little while ago. Marwan had gone off to find his friend. Najun had finished with her client and had a bit of time, so she'd come to grab Ronan and the two had set off. Only she and Dom were left, staring at the empty glasses on the table. Her mind was still clear, unaffected by the alcohol. She hadn't drank that much anyways. She rarely dared risk it.

  Just a precaution. God knew if the words she always kept barely suppressed might explode if she drank just a tiny bit too much.

  "This was a shitty night," Dom drawled.

  She said, "You think?"

  "We spent half of it arguing."

  "As usual."

  "Well yeah, I suppose so." He rubbed his forehead. He'd had a bit too much to drink, probably, but they were wiccai so it wouldn't be all that bad. Worst case scenario, she had to haul his sorry ass home.

  She said, "Rong'en's performing tonight, want to go watch?"

  "It'll be extraordinarily crowded."

  "We can use one of the balconies," she pointed out.

  He gave it some thought, then nodded. "Alright, then." Rong'en's performance would be the centrepiece, and they were struck with the sound of dancing music the moment they stepped out of the room. The stage in the centre of the building was currently occupied by a band of six dancing women dressed in light shades of pink, their sleeves and dresses long and made  of silk. In their hands were two fans of the same material, an extension of their limbs as they twisted and turned.

  Rhys murmured, "Dance of the Roses."

  It was a slow dance. Rhys felt herself smile as she watched the girls spin and spin and spin around. One of her favourite dances. So graceful, so elegant.

  There was a pipa player on stage, but it wasn't Rong'en. One of the other girls. They watched in silence, her and Dom, as the dance concluded. They'd come just in time. Rong'en and the dancers must be rotating their performances.

  Rong'en smoothed her dress and slowly walked towards her chair in the centre of the stage, pipa held against her shoulder. Her lips were lifted in a confident, wry grin as she sat down. "Wan shang hao." Good evening.

  And then the performance began.

  It was a well-known Saian poem she sang, accompanied with her instrument as she plucked on the strings. Rhys had tried playing a pipa once. Her fingers hadn't been fast enough. It had sounded abysmal.

  "When the snowflakes fall onto the ground,

    I sit alone by the windows,

   Waiting for the return of a love that never was,

   Crying, crying, regretful, regretful,

   But it's all too late now."

  "Don't get the obsession with this poem," Dom grumbled. "They keep performing it, again and again and again."

  "It's sweet," Rhys argued. "Heartbreaking."

  "It's sad. Shouldn't we all be craving after love stories with happy endings?"

  "Sometimes a tragic one is what we want to hear. Human nature, you know, some people enjoy breaking their own hearts over the tragedy of others or fictional characters again and again.