A hand comes from behind her; the long square fingers hold a little crystal bottle with a golden dropper.
Her young lavender spies absorb another idea, though; she wanders toward a small pool, hovering at the median of a crumbling, grainy wall.
A pool in midair, she thinks, and dips her ten year old head into it.
A little too cold, and pale and blue; but at least her eyes are round again, instead of sharp and dry and red and paper-wrinkled.
Her daddy laughs, the sparking letters of his wordlessness full with happy-sounds.
Now she is at the table again, grown. Sitting quietly. Wondering. Her hands picking carefully at the pretty pale violets daddy must have weaved to make her dress.
He is in the apron again, humming as he sticks his bunny paws into the bubbly grey dishwater.
His tail wiggles at her merrily, a puffy white spring of confused cloud.
There is something she wants to know, she realises.
“Daddy, where did you get the dish soap?”
Then his brown fur paws raise up from the dishpan, holding something.
A round stick of pearl… a handle… a silvery moon in the center.
His rabbit shoulders stiff like a struck tree branch. His body straightens slowly.
His bristling fur blows apart from itself as he clings with weak bunny elbows to the sink.
“Not yet,” his little pink nosed face suddenly charges; the mirror dances in his paws, this way, that way, up into the air, a little silver vulture, out for pennies.
His desperate, slippy paws slap together though, catching it expertly before it dare twist around and reveal him.
In those burly swordsman paws, the caught mirror turns as he wishes, hiding his face behind its pearl backing.