The air was still, as death often tended to do. If the air was still, then nothing else could move. Not the speeches streaming from Ralsei, not the marches of the Royal Guards about the palace, not even the faint music still chiming from the orchestra. But there was still a little thread of something, even as the bushes were gulping down their fill. A thought, a lyric from the orchestra's concert that morning, streaming through each of their heads at slightly different rates. A round song.
Herod the King,
in his raging,
charged he hath this day.
His men of might,
in his own sight,
all children young to slay…
Lancer had sung a carol from his soul to Susie. Given her a peace offering, a dove with the Lamb's fur, Agnus Dei, softer than words or touch.
There was nothing else pouring from Susie's mouth, no curses at Ralsei, who was ripping a wail from the insides of his throat. No curses at the skies above him.
Susie looked down. Red, almost nothing else. She shuddered.
And she returned the carol.
"Then woe is me
poor child, for thee
and ever mourn and say
for thy parting
nor say nor sing
by-by, lullay, lullay…"
And in an instant, Susie proved that savagery could sing.
"Lullay, lullay
my little tiny child
by-by
lullay
lullay…"