They leak black out of her eyes and paint her narrow face in ways she can't explain, because she's far too hard and wild and hot and fierce, she shouldn't be showing the peeling paint, she shouldn't be feeling the rock-wrench in her gut, she shouldn't be thrashing and clashing and on fire.
But she is, she is, she always is, because that's not Tambourin. He might sigh, but his heart breaks only on the inside, though hers does all over the place, in her face and in her hair and hard on her hate and out of her eyes. She is a hate-in-the-box.
She claws at his shabby grey coat and wants to claw out his gentledeep eyes and kick him hard in his serenity.
Poor Basel; what she must put up with, roué to a thrall.
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