53. Sigh
Any human heart would be touched by them, their carefully non-existent senses of self; it is, invariably, a beautiful thing. (But it is beautiful like a bruise, with broken blood vessels pooling beneath the skin—or still more like a cancer cell, a colourful and deadly array so intent upon the science of living that it has forgone the system of equal trade: if you exist, you are subject to death.)
When someone once asked, at a party (Riza remembers that it was Gracia who posed the question, innocently), what kind of animal they thought they might be it was Roy who answered, in his self-depreciating way, that of course he would be a dog, they would all be dogs—weren't they, in fact, dogs already? and Riza had said nothing for a long moment (because it was really a habit for her by now, to measure the importance of things with silence, with a sort of fragile care) and answered that she would be a bird of prey. It suits you, she was told. The rest of the party thought it an incredibly clever reference to her eyes and her aim. Of course that makes sense, for her, they said.
Roy is the only one who realizes, much later that night, why she sees herself this way: Riza is loyal, incredibly and painfully loyal, and hunters of that species mate for life.