Work in progress
Feb. 16th, 2010 06:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceOne of the nice things about revising rather than writing: you get more darlings per day, so - if you're me, at least - you're more inclined to scatter them with a free hand across the internets.
This one I'm putting behind a cut, because it contains a teeny-tiny spoiler for Jade Man's Skin, and you might not want that; but I'm posting it because, actually? This is why I love my job, because I get to do stuff like this.
"Why do I like this so much - or no, not that, quite. Why is this all I want?"
"The tea? Because it is bitter, it speaks true to your tongue."
"Not the tea," though the empress was right about that too. It sat in Mei Feng's mouth like a curl of steam from a hidden mountain pool, tasting of rock and depth and clarity, nothing soft or sweet. Nothing that grew. Some teas tasted of the untamed forest, or the grasslands she had never seen, or the sea-wind blowing over the paddy: greenness at their hearts. Not this. This held no light at all, no colours. It was a tea for the night, a tea for her baby in its darkness, waiting.
In other news, in further evidence that I am better-but-still-sick: I am sitting here working with another cup of tea. This is my wine-time, and I haven't even thought about it.
Also, downstairs is a pan of carrot and celeriac, simmering on the stove: for tomorrow I shall make my own soup, which is to say not that sick any longer.
Also also, if a man is going to live on soup and toast, he would do well to get himself more butter: but this would involve leaving the house. Which, um, I haven't done for three days, and I may be losing my nerve.
This one I'm putting behind a cut, because it contains a teeny-tiny spoiler for Jade Man's Skin, and you might not want that; but I'm posting it because, actually? This is why I love my job, because I get to do stuff like this.
"Why do I like this so much - or no, not that, quite. Why is this all I want?"
"The tea? Because it is bitter, it speaks true to your tongue."
"Not the tea," though the empress was right about that too. It sat in Mei Feng's mouth like a curl of steam from a hidden mountain pool, tasting of rock and depth and clarity, nothing soft or sweet. Nothing that grew. Some teas tasted of the untamed forest, or the grasslands she had never seen, or the sea-wind blowing over the paddy: greenness at their hearts. Not this. This held no light at all, no colours. It was a tea for the night, a tea for her baby in its darkness, waiting.
In other news, in further evidence that I am better-but-still-sick: I am sitting here working with another cup of tea. This is my wine-time, and I haven't even thought about it.
Also, downstairs is a pan of carrot and celeriac, simmering on the stove: for tomorrow I shall make my own soup, which is to say not that sick any longer.
Also also, if a man is going to live on soup and toast, he would do well to get himself more butter: but this would involve leaving the house. Which, um, I haven't done for three days, and I may be losing my nerve.