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‘No, no,’ laughs Nilou, replacing Eula’s hand further up her waist. ‘Try it like this.’
And they waltz together. Nilou’s sandals leave no trace in the wet shoreline; Eula’s heels drill down into it like bullets.
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Bookmark Notes:
Whilst they spin and drift from sand to grass and back, Nilou tells her of many things: Swoof, the dog who croons in the Grand Bazaar; the Akademiya, and how she shuddered to enter it, though she had every right to borrow a book; and the Zubayr Theatre. The Theatre, yes, where Nilou rolls her hips and raises her hands in sacred song, wielding her body as an instrument of joy.
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Whilst they twirl like the revolving petals of a Windwheel Aster, Eula finds herself speaking of so much: the briny taste to the still-imperfect field rations; the City, and how she must marshal herself each time to enter it, though she has every right to be there; and the Reconnaissance Company. The Company, yes, where Eula swings herself and her claymore alike, imagining their next dance as blood paints her cheeks.
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