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Illuga's earring, which was once a pendant, was cupped in his roughened palm within the lamplight. Flins was all but bent over it—it tended to catch his eye, and Illuga had taken pity on him. They were sat across from each other and Flins' knees pressed into his beneath the narrow table, welcome warmth on a frigid night: Illuga's breath was visible between them. Flins murmured, May I, and after Illuga's short nod, drew his hand closer.
Flins turned the pendant over, lingering over the concave center. Shadows fell at strange angles across his face and coat, at odds with the flickering of the lamplight. The gentle blue it cast looked good on him.
"It's possible that a smith had a hand in its creation," he said, "Or the lapidary possessed that power of a fiery sort, or was merely a great master. I've not seen a cut like this before. You recall nothing of it, truly?"
"There is something in my mind which muddles clarity," Illuga confessed, his voice low within the confines of the library-cellar. The visage of his mother was hazy in memory, and in the subconscious wreathed in smoke, with a ring of dark flame around her throat. It stood to reason that he looked like her, and would sometimes glimpse his reflection in passing—in puddles, in the shore, in the mirror above his sink—and unwittingly reconstruct her from himself. His earring was hers: of this he was sure, though he couldn't say why.
After a beat, Flins said, "It's agate, I believe."
Illuga snorted, despite himself. "You believe? Sir, the men claimed you were an expert."
"Now, I would rather call myself a collector. I'd wager it was a gift to her, or an heirloom."
I wonder if I was to inherit, or if she left it with me, or I took it. He couldn't imagine himself taking it, but he couldn't recall what he used to be like. In the months after Nikita had first taken him in, Illuga had thought himself almost a ghost, haunting the metal streets of Piramida. I have lived two lives, Illuga thought, and as Flins' gaze flicked to his, he realized he'd spoken out loud. Clearing his throat, he looked away, face burning.
"May I be forthright with you?"
"Of course, Master Illuga."
"Many of our fellows are orphans, or have lost someone, at the very least. In this regard, I'm no different than anyone."
It wasn't forthright at all, but neither of them mentioned it. When he glanced back, Flins seemed pensive. Illuga wished there was a fireplace—blue flame bore little heat, but it burned all the same, Flins had warned him. "Are you inquiring of my parents?"
"You don't have to answer if you don't want to," Illuga said hastily.
"I never said that I did not admire your persistent curiosity," Flins said. "Unfortunately, I have little to tell, and I don't think about them at all. I have heard that I bear my mother's likeness, and my father's ennui." He closed Illuga's fingers around the pendant, and gently pushed it back towards him. "You are quite gracious to indulge me."
"It's no problem," Illuga said. "I knew you wanted to see it."
Flins laughed—he sounded almost surprised. Illuga felt his mouth twitch towards a smile. He fixed the pendant back in his ear. It was warm where Flins had touched it.