never have I spied aggression between the pair of them. I’d venture to say there’s a degree of maternal affection on the part of that Gryfala, there absolutely has to be—after all, she is affording the inordinate expense to create an entire village for the herd of kept humans to become inhabitresses of.
But this Gryfala before Gracie now is of no relation by matehood. Not that being a kinswoman wouldn’t betoken danger. As I said, if the Gryfala viewed humans as rivals, then an attack would be imminent.
Instead, the Gryfala appears only very curious, and seeing a human next to a real princess not only shows their surface similarities, but also highlights their vast differences starkly. Polished, elegant, dangerous; from their wingtips to their claws and fangs and shrewd, ultra-glamorous eyes, Gryfala are made to draw attention, to wield their power.
In contrast, Gracie’s form is far, far smaller, for one thing. Shorter. Stockier. A keen intelligence shines in her eyes, sure, and I wouldn’t show her my belly if she were holding a knife—but she’d have to actually be holding a knife for me to worry about physical harm. Tiny teeth, most of them flat, no venom. A mere human like Gracie can’t even hiss properly.
Where the two match is their fashion. Gracie designed her own clothing, making it either by her own hands or her hob army whom she orders to sew things for her like they’re her personal males-in-waiting.
Gryfalas are attracted to bright colors and shine, and Gracie has employed both in her costumery. She’s chosen to dress mainly in black, in a durable fabric with fire-gold accents that complement and showcase her mate’s azure-streaked wingmarkings.
As the authentic princess studies Gracie, each of her hobs are watching her, just as wary as me.
Gracie though remains oblivious to the potential danger, or she’s choosing to disregard it. “How big you want this model? I’ll tell you what the cost of our labor is, and our partner Bash here will figure the cost of the materials.”
For the next several clicks, I can only marvel at Gracie’s handling of the deal. In the end, the Gryfala flies off seeming quite satisfied with her purchase, and Gracie is triumphant.
Hells, I’m triumphant too—teveking jubilant! When the Gryfala and her service of hobs are specks on the horizon, I turn to the human beside me and for the first time, view her with no malice. “Female, you did well.”
Dohrein, with his wing cupped partway around his mate’s back, eyes me. His brow also rises a fraction, betraying his surprise, but Gracie accepts my compliment as if it was a natural, expected thing. “Fork yeah I did!” She shoots her hand up towards me, fingers somewhat relaxed—and then she hovers her hand in the air. To a nearby Rakhii, Gracie calls, “Hear that, Akita? I didn’t use any curse words.”
“Congratulations,” the Rakhii says. But his name is Hotahn, not Akita, as Gracie sometimes calls him. I don’t know the meaning behind the nickname. I haven’t asked either.
I consider Gracie’s still-raised palm, her fingertips. I see scrapes; nothing severe, but it’s clear she’s been working rock. Even wearing gloves as often as they do, human skin is so fragile, minor injuries like Gracie’s are common. I’m so pleased with her handling of the sale I just do as she clearly expects: I graciously spit on her.
Gracie’s hand flinches, and her arm stiffens at the elbow. “Whoa! Not what I was going for, but… thanks.” Eyes bemused, she flattens her lips and brings her other hand up to touch her palms, spreading my saliva to treat any surface damage she has.
Curious and in a mood to be tolerant of her alien ways, I ask, “What were you ‘going for’ if not healing?”
It’s her mate who answers. “Studies on human contact show that gestures with touch enhance camaraderie among their people.” Dohrein’s wing slides around her back until his talon hooks itself over her hip like a creepishly long, clawed thumb, drawing her into his side.
My smile turns into a frown. I turn it on Gracie. “Your aim was to touch me?”
Gracie rolls her eyes. “It’s not like you’re not getting the anti-bonding drugs. A high five doesn’t make us married, dipstick.”
That last word she used translates as a measuring stick for depth. Like so many human words, it makes no sense in the context of this conversation.
But it would seem one thing is clear: Gracie wanted to strengthen whatever relationship that exists between us by touching my