The letter had been buried beneath textbooks and dust-crusted tools—an intentional prison, if a weak one. Blunt statements of facts and forecasts, dressed in rough curls and the imagined scratch of Limestone's voice, reached Marble Pie anyway.
The farm is fine. Short on hooves though. Gonna be a graft to meet orders.
For a moment, the sound of her dormmates getting ready filled the air; listening, Marble tried to pick out any sense of duty or obligation lurking beneath hopeful plans for the night ahead—familiar fears to draw comfort from.
Pa's better after his injury. Be easier once we build up the savings and get some hired hooves in.
Marble met her reflection's gaze, judging eyes framed by her eyeliner—the curves of the latter as delicate as her submission portfolio.
Limestone wasn't mad. She was just speaking of facts and acceptance and duty.
Marble's curves sagged anyway.