For Iris

[anewlanguage]

The beach is made of soft white sand, threaded with seaweed drying out in the hot sun. Cain often chooses places that are secluded but not here. His hut is just one of a dozen stuck up above the shoreline on stilts; it takes a ladder (or some very creative ninja tricks) to get up to it.

It's easy to spot his, despite his habit of trying to blend in. His is the only one with a ramp, and his is the only one with a million boar tracks circling the sand outside.

Comments

[routemistress]

It's been longer for Iris than for Cain since they talked. First she had to see Victor off in style, then there was a breach; but then, they both have the luxury of treating Time as mostly optional. The only real difference is that Iris has found the time to research into optimum pig treats, and has come armed with balls of dried fruit ground up with peanut butter.

She's dressed for the weather, barefoot in a diamante-studded bikini, topped with a sarong in a violently colourful birds-of-paradise print and a straw hat the size of a wagon wheel. Her smile rivals the hat for size and the bikini for brilliance.

She stops ten yards away from the hut, sticks two fingers in her mouth and lets out a piercing whistle.