“I should have father paint a picture of us- he’d enjoy that,” she says, parting her lips in another laugh that rings the hills with silver. Then her violet eyes fall on him- it’s like being washed in purple nacre, just in time for the Second Sunrise. “… and I should never fail to succour you. We are perfect, you and I, you liar. Be still- it is adored and in its place. Did father give it to you?”
As his father’s sunset of lavender petals falls on the two of them in a pleasant rain of purple, he lies back in the red and ruby and garnet blades of soft grass and gazes at her laughing, grinning, pirouetting self, and fancies that his love is a statue carved of pearl, spinning in a music box ballet.
“Oui, ma’ peche, oui…” he admits after a moment, feeling his mouth muscles rebel in a smile despite his best efforts to remain bearish.
His fingers drift along the edges of the thing on his face. Allowing himself to laugh at long last, he pulls it off.