other bits of blog

Wednesday, November 25, 2009


Diana is not only a spy, but she is almost a boy now.

Mica takes my hand, and leads me through the street. They are strange and unfamiliar, but Mica seems to know them well.
“Where are we?” I ask abruptly.
“Dublin,” he says.
“Dublin? You mean Dublin in Ireland?”
“Yeah, what did you think I meant?”
“I don’t know. Three days ago, I was in Oxford.”
He stares at me.
“So, you were in Oxford, big deal.”
“Oxford, England. I have no idea how I got to be in Ireland. No idea.”
“Oh.” Mica turns pink, then forgetting his situation, he leads me onward. We don’t talk for a while, lost in our own thoughts. But the silence seems deafening.
“Where are we going?” I ask when Mica turns onto a busy cobblestone street.
“To the Dragonfly.” He turns around and keeps walking.
Mica’s short hair is coal black, like night. The edges curl around his soft, inquisitive face, like a young boy. But I feel a royal air about him. He holds himself high.
I look down at myself. My tattered, wet nightgown still clings to my body. My slippers have fallen off, and my hair is tangled and uncombed. Suddenly I feel embarrassed to look like this in front of Mica. I try to comb out my hair with my fingers, and straighten out my dress. Nothing works. I turn red, and look down at the street until Mica stops me in front of a small inn.
“Diana, I don’t know you very well, but I need to tell you something before we go inside.”
“Alright, go ahead.”
“I’m a thief, Diana.” I smile, I have my own secret.
“I’m a spy,” I say. Mica raises his eyebrows quickly, and then keeps talking.
“Anyway, I’m the advisor to the King. The King of the Thieves. I’m his spy, his best friend, and, we, well, the Rouges, that’s us, the thieves, don’t exactly…” he trails off.
“Let girls in,” I say, finishing his sentence.
“So I have to turn into a boy?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says again. He leads me to the back of the inn, explaining. “If you want to stay here, then I have to take you into my room. The back way. By the way, this is the Dragonfly.” Mica takes me to a tiny door in a fence. He pulls a key out of his pocket, and unlocks it.
“A Rouge, needing a key. That’s interesting,” I tease. Mica smiles and opens the door. A tiny rope swings from a window on the third story. He starts climbing, and pulls me up after him. We step into his room. For a thief, the room is like a palace. Rooms, actually. He has his own bathroom, and a door, I think, that connects him to the King.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the bathroom. I follow him, blushing. “Sit down.” He indicates a chair in the corner. I sit, and he runs into his room.
Mica comes back holding scissors. He makes cutting motions with his hands, looking at me. I nod my head.
The boy walks up to me and cuts the first lock. Soon, almost all my hair is on the floor. I finger what’s left. My copper red hair is cropped to my chin, curling to frame my sharp jaw and high cheekbones. Mica hands me a mirror. I look like my brother, who’s two years older than me. I look like a boy.


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