Fuse
Sage Moore
1870
The flame flickers twice on the tip of his finger, and then it is sparking up the long fuse. A single thick twist that rises and branches into multitudes of twists, branching still into thinner strings. The pale glitter climbs up and up, leaving frayed black threads behind on its way to its destination.
The surrounding room is very white. Nothing but pale marble floor laid out in a single slab, scrolled white molding leading to walls and ceiling plastered in a similar shade. It results in something luminous and soft, looking as though it would be light and intangible if touched. The piano in the center is very black. The surface is slick and unadorned, the edges sanded down into clean, gently rounded lines.
He is one of the only colored things in the room, gold hair, skin a few shades lighter, eyes dark and blue above sharp cheekbones. And it is truly only himself, as his shirt is white and his waistcoat is black to match his trousers.
The other colored things are the explosives at the end of the lit fuse.
They are a vivid, artificial crimson, narrow cylinders stacked high on the piano’ s ebony lid.
There is no music on the slatted black stand above the pale keys, but he sits at the bench and plays anyway. Something simple and lush with a slow, lazy cadence. The song fills his ears like soft water, and just beneath that is the constant excited sizzle of the flame as it eats up the white fuse dangling beside him. Bits of dark thread fall onto the keys as the rope grows shorter. He does not watch the fuse run out.
1863
She is sitting on the balcony railing when he comes through the door, kicking her small black boots back and forth. He settles himself on the icy stone rail and studies her with care. She is very stark against the pale winter outside the castle, all vivid red hair over a ruffled and ribboned black dress, but her skin matches the surrounding cold perfectly. He turns his head to watch the river that crosses the grounds, and studies her indirectly. Her father is still laughing with his father inside. He and she are silent for several passes of the cold breeze.
She finally turns her head to look at him, very slowly. The set of her face is too severe for the childish roundness to her cheeks or the length of her eyelashes.
57