The peasant boy was stupid, playing out in the street like that. He runs right behind an ostrich-horse cart, the beast starts, and before you can blink there's a crowd and people gasping and crushed something and your mama presses your head into her skirts.
Don't look, darling, she says, and leads you away from the carnage to a spice stall. You do anyway, peeping through the sheer fabric. A woman you think (was) the boy's mother is screaming so loud her voice cracks, on her knees in the dirt. You don't understand her face. You have never seen such a face, twisted up and shrunken in—
Mama finishes her shopping early, and you practice the faces before your bedroom mirror once you're ensconsed in the palace again. Grimace, widen your eyes, gape your mouth open in—
you don't understand. It doesn't look right, but you don't know why.
When you think about the red red stains on the ground, though, the blood and bone and brain splattered all over, a low hum jolts through your body. You want to see it again.
(You will.)
