Re: The hunt ; quietly
Oh dear, oh no. Everything came to a wrenching halt. "What do you mean?" Puck asked. There was a crestfallen collapse of his delicate features.
She really didn't like him. She thought he'd ruined him. The birds stopped chirping, and the wind went dead.
Had he failed? He'd failed. He'd tried to be a good servant, but she said that wasn't even his occupation. He didn't know who he had thought he might be fooling, thinking that enthusiasm would make up for his track record. He was terrible at this. He never made anything right, and the things he touched crumbled and fell apart, cracked, as had the woman with the crazing around her mouth like old porcelain. He had only wanted to play a game, because he remembered how little laughter there was in the world outside the party. He thought she would appreciate his surprise, in the end, that it would better her.
He struggled with the impulse, sudden and sharp, to play a much crueler trick. Then the feeling subsided, no, cruelty didn't sing in his veins. Spitfire eyes dimmed to embers. "Alright," he said, and sniffed. "Then you sit there!" He watched her smooth away her cracks, and his eyes brimmed with tears. "I hope you melt like ice cream!"
There was an abrupt burst of wind rushing through the trees around them, loud enough to drown the sound of speech. By the time it subsided, he was gone.