my lamb and martyr

[amethysts]

The piano the girls sit at (the elder one looks exactly like Libby, except clean and unpierced and gentle) is wide and magnificent. The whole room is. Obviously it comes from a great deal of money. The older girl picks up the hands of the smaller one and puts them on the keys.

"You try now, Wren," she coaxes. Her own hands settle on the bench. And shake.

"Larkspur?"

"Mm?"

"Are you cold?"

The older girl freezes as the woman in the corner of the room looks up sharply. They look at each other, and Larkspur wraps an arm around Wren's waist and presses her close. Wren squirms, not paying attention to the silent exchange.

"No, baby," Larkspur says, quietly, and turns back to the sheet music and Wren, her feathers pressed down flat. "No. I'm okay. You know--you know I love you, right?"

"I love you too." But Wren isn't really paying attention, although she's obviously content to be cuddled like this.

"Okay." Larkspur breathes into the blonde fluff of Wren's hair, her eyes squeezed shut. "Okay. Play--play the music for me, sweetheart."

Wren starts to play, and two girls in identical pink dresses scaled to their sizes sit at a piano as a sharp woman in a grey suit watches Larkspur's hands shake and shake.

Wren is four.