Zhi jerked the notebook away from Lalataru without meaning to, and forced a nervous smile at him. "Ain't used t'this," she muttered, ducking her head at him in mute apology.
She couldn't deny her hunger. Dangerous way to feel around a mark, couldn't deny that either. She opened the notebook to a new page, and resolutely bent to the task that he'd set her without quite understanding how she was supposed to let her whims guide the lines. It was so stupid. Zhi had grown up scratching in the dirt same as any other gutterborn, with trash for toys and invention a necessity to stave off boredom. Rules had evolved in and between the city's laws, all unspoken and all enforced with brutality and cruelty. You didn't go there, you didn't mess with him, you watched your mouth around her. They'd grown into her, melded into her bones and grown roots beneath her. All those little unspoken understandings, methods of survival. But, if you'd asked Zhi whether or not she was a follower of laws and rules, she'd have thumbed up her nose, because they weren't rules, not to her. They just were what they were.
So why was it so rutting difficult when given freedom of direction for her to do it? The lines were lines, forming shapes that she could twist to whatever she chose. But warping them, they just turned to scribbles -- not the mysterious symbols Lalataru had produced. There was no breeze, no light touch down her spine. Nothing but her wasted effort. At first she thought she was just doing it wrong, that if she tried harder . . . but no.
Here, Joz's failure was Zhi's failure. It wasn't a competition against anyone but herself, and that made the sting of it all the worse, this thought that she couldn't do something so simple as doodle out a few different lines. Page upon page filled and was set aside, until finally she sat back on her heels and set her palms to her thighs. Her hair hung about her face; she didn't look up from the blank page before her. Her back hurt. Her neck hurt. Her hand cramped. She swallowed something ugly down, and when she spoke her voice was faint. "How. . .long does't . . .take. . .usually?"
She couldn't deny her hunger. Dangerous way to feel around a mark, couldn't deny that either. She opened the notebook to a new page, and resolutely bent to the task that he'd set her without quite understanding how she was supposed to let her whims guide the lines. It was so stupid. Zhi had grown up scratching in the dirt same as any other gutterborn, with trash for toys and invention a necessity to stave off boredom. Rules had evolved in and between the city's laws, all unspoken and all enforced with brutality and cruelty. You didn't go there, you didn't mess with him, you watched your mouth around her. They'd grown into her, melded into her bones and grown roots beneath her. All those little unspoken understandings, methods of survival. But, if you'd asked Zhi whether or not she was a follower of laws and rules, she'd have thumbed up her nose, because they weren't rules, not to her. They just were what they were.
So why was it so rutting difficult when given freedom of direction for her to do it? The lines were lines, forming shapes that she could twist to whatever she chose. But warping them, they just turned to scribbles -- not the mysterious symbols Lalataru had produced. There was no breeze, no light touch down her spine. Nothing but her wasted effort. At first she thought she was just doing it wrong, that if she tried harder . . . but no.
Here, Joz's failure was Zhi's failure. It wasn't a competition against anyone but herself, and that made the sting of it all the worse, this thought that she couldn't do something so simple as doodle out a few different lines. Page upon page filled and was set aside, until finally she sat back on her heels and set her palms to her thighs. Her hair hung about her face; she didn't look up from the blank page before her. Her back hurt. Her neck hurt. Her hand cramped. She swallowed something ugly down, and when she spoke her voice was faint. "How. . .long does't . . .take. . .usually?"
