[ jealous, kaveh says. it is but a dream, alhaitham thinks. a figment of the imagination of a long-dead king. it does not bear jealousy. not kaveh's. not anyone's. but this, he does not say. kaveh's head tilts with the peel of his rambutan. alhaitham's handkerchief rises to meet him halfway.
no subject
amused, and quietly so: ]
Do my hands seem like they are meant to draw?