Smoking oja was a wonderful way to end the day, but a horrible way to start it. Circe was doing it anyway.
She'd rather have been sleeping, snuggled up in her quarters on the DragonStar, but Arjun got irritable when she slept away her days. It really was amazing, the things she'd do to please her king. She hadn't gone and become a sky pirate to have to wake up before noon.
The oja was improving the sleepiness problem not at all, and occasionally she would inhale by yawning, which rightfully ought to have given her coughing fits. She was dressed in mainland finery, the sort of thing that would have fit in better in Akvero than Muskaptilo, all indigo blue and decorated with real gold thread. She'd had the dress tailored short so she could wear it with men's trousers, and she was currently besmirching the dignity of her cape by wrapping it around herself like a blanket. Her boots, so very fine and so very warm, had been left on the rack by the door as was proper.
"Bet you'd be warmer in wool," Fatima teased, as Circe sipped at mint tea with entirely too much honey.
"But I would not look even half so pretty, O Learnéd One," she responded, and Fatima snorted. Circe had snatched up all the extra cushions to build herself a nest on which to lounge, settled in so snugly that it was hard to believe that she had plans to ever leave. They could hear the fall of fat raindrops on the stone of the roof, and that, too, threatened to lull dainty Circe back to sleep.
She'd rather have been sleeping, snuggled up in her quarters on the DragonStar, but Arjun got irritable when she slept away her days. It really was amazing, the things she'd do to please her king. She hadn't gone and become a sky pirate to have to wake up before noon.
The oja was improving the sleepiness problem not at all, and occasionally she would inhale by yawning, which rightfully ought to have given her coughing fits. She was dressed in mainland finery, the sort of thing that would have fit in better in Akvero than Muskaptilo, all indigo blue and decorated with real gold thread. She'd had the dress tailored short so she could wear it with men's trousers, and she was currently besmirching the dignity of her cape by wrapping it around herself like a blanket. Her boots, so very fine and so very warm, had been left on the rack by the door as was proper.
"Bet you'd be warmer in wool," Fatima teased, as Circe sipped at mint tea with entirely too much honey.
"But I would not look even half so pretty, O Learnéd One," she responded, and Fatima snorted. Circe had snatched up all the extra cushions to build herself a nest on which to lounge, settled in so snugly that it was hard to believe that she had plans to ever leave. They could hear the fall of fat raindrops on the stone of the roof, and that, too, threatened to lull dainty Circe back to sleep.
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