He's going to kill them they have to get away--
she commands it--
and then they are away and it occurs to her that she never specified where to. She slowly unclenches her arms from their death grip around her sister and looks around.
He's going to kill them they have to get away--
she commands it--
and then they are away and it occurs to her that she never specified where to. She slowly unclenches her arms from their death grip around her sister and looks around.
"What does it mean that your country - is Genosha your country? - doesn't?" asks Alaior's father.
She nods. "Genosha Odette country, Prussia Raikel country, Anglia Karole country. Odette Prussia, Odette Zavier. Odette Anglia, Odette Zavier. Odette Genosha--" she holds out her hands to either side. "Odette Zavier," she says, gesturing with one. "Odette Lehnsherr," she gestures with the other. Then she closes the Zavier hand firmly.
"I can't figure out if she means they let her pick or if it's because her parents' countries agreed on -"
"This is obviously green work, don't hurt yourself."
"Then the senator should answer his priority line in more than an hour and a half, what can possibly be taking so long -"
"Something's always on fire at the Senate."
"Then why even bother calling it a priority line?"
"Well isn't that rather liberal."
"Maybe it's only the names."
"Is anyone else eyeing the last wedge of bread..."
"It's all yours."
"Here last names are matrilineal because caste is. When it comes up, but usually people don't mix like that."
"They're aliens," says Alaior.
"Aliens could have invented castes too."
"They haven't invented electricity."
"Electricity was after castes."
She considers. "India caste, Nihon caste?" she doesn't sound very certain. "Prussia doesn't caste, Anglia doesn't caste, Genosha doesn't caste."
"Oh, it just hasn't spread around yet - maybe they don't have the right ones."
"Where was it that it started here, I forget -"
"Ancient Prato under Confl the Third."
"Showoff."
"Mustn't have the right ones."
"Or they're just aliens."
"Obviously they're aliens."
"I mean that they can be different."
"I know what you meant."
"And green and grey and purple and orange."
"That's mixed up," protests Alaior, "it isn't how the song goes."
"It doesn't matter, darling."
Everyone makes various faces. "That too."
"But they aren't in the song because they're dirty," says Alaior, "and don't go in a song with us or anywhere else."
"If the aliens don't have reds -"
Some of the adults take a step or two back and one picks up Alaior.
"They're not red," says Alaior, "they're brown."
"They still might not be clean," murmurs her mother.
"It would probably be best if the senator and his people were the ones to explain things to you instead of a one-year-old yellow."