“River.”
River blinks away from her stinging mind of thoughts, casting a sidelong glance at the room she is passing by. Her steps falter at the sight of Atticus lying on his back on a wide, pillowed bench, balancing a lyre on his stomach.
Idly, he plucks at it. His golden crown of hair held up with a leather strap. His skin is the colour of just-pressed olive oil, and smooth as polished wood, without the scabs and blemishes that covers the rest of youth his age.
Lambent eyes tilt in her direction, regarding her idly; “Join me.”
His presence, River decides, is like a stone in her shoe - impossible to ignore. Tucking her scowl away and hazardous thoughts, she takes a scuffling step into the room. His head lolls to the side to regard her, his eye heavy-lidded as his smile cat-like. “How a
