The Picture of Passivity --@ [Isagus]
Isabela didn’t want to close her eyes. Whenever she did there was something lurking there--waiting for her. It didn’t matter what it was: smoke filled courtyards and smoke filled lungs; crowded ports--people trying to pour into the sea; a kaleidoscope college party--
They all kept Isabela up.
It was tragic, really, considering Isabela needed her beauty sleep. Perhaps that was why her magic wasn’t working. She wasn’t getting enough sleep.
Because--yes, her magic wasn’t working. She didn’t know why. It couldn’t even be blamed on the ghosts of the coup which haunted her. It had started before that. Just a fluke, here or there. She could blame it on the stress of prom committee (not stressful, but easy enough to blame). Now--she didn’t know.
It felt like she was wilting.
Her bare feet were silent against the warm stone floor of Casita as she crossed down to the kitchen. As soon as she entered the kitchen, it came alive. The faucet running, the kettle clanking, and the stove clicking on.
“Gracias,” Isabela murmured, touching the wall.
The water boiled, Isabela found the powdered chocolate that her mama kept for special occasions and she poured it into a cup, piling it on, so the chocolate would be heavy and sweet on her tongue. She added a bit of cream and then Casita pulled out her chair for her, wiggling it back and forth invitingly.
Isabela sighed and sank into it. She drank her cocoa, sitting in the dark and stared at the wall. She didn’t hear anyone come in. Not until the same routine started again: the faucet running, the kettle clanking, and the stove clicking on.
“Oh, buenas noches, Papa,” she murmured, taking another sip of her cocoa and curling her toes over the rung of her stool.