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Motes of dust hung in the beams, turning over and over. Kaufman watched them, entranced. He hadn t seen such a beautiful thing since he was a child. Lovely dust.
A faint breeze stirred the wings of the dragon kite, set it turning slowly overhead. Clean and sharp as a chef's cutlery, the talons slipped over the sill and into the room.
. . they wanted us to be together. I see. Shota's gaze cooled. Her small smile returned. Im afraid that doesnt count. Doesnt count! What in the name of all that's good does that mean?