The Heart of the Emperor
“I want to go home, Barry.” Parris said.
The skirt that snapped around the woman’s ankles was a waterfall. Patched fabrics, dyed in every colour a child could dream, folded and tumbling over themselves. Whirlpools of bronze hemmed its edges, catching gentle torchlight thrown from private corners of the common room. The dulcimer could barely be heard above the sound of the woman’s romping, bare feet slapping against the boards of the wooden stage. And whatever noise she did not make the people took upon themselves, thumping fists on tables, boots over stone. Metal mugs slopped and rang as they were tipped against each other and throats raw with laughter wet themselves.
