forbarrayar | [ february ii log ]

Entry tags:

[ february ii log ]

Who: Everyone
What: Traitors exposed, celebrations had, sleight hands passing cards under the table. And so begin the preparations for what is soon to come.
When: February 18th - 28th
Where: Barrayaran camp / Cetagandan base
Warnings: Torture (interrogations thread)

Quick links:
Riverfall
Barrayar: Barrayaran camp / Party / Missions
Cetaganda: Cetagandan base / Moon-poetry party / Missions

The harsh weather rages on, which temperatures still averaging far below freezing, and the wind is still strong. But things are a little less dire for the outsiders, and for the exotics -- well, they have their own chills to deal with.

riverfall
Riverfall village is your typical Dendarii mountain village, which means it's small, humble, and mostly poor. This is the most rural of the rural around here, a little backwater even by Barrayaran standards. Most of the villagers live in houses of wood and stone built themselves or by ancestors. Despite the cold, there are plenty of people outside at any given time -- working, mostly, because the daily grind stops for no one, but even the occasional group of children taken over by fits of cabin fever. The village is built up against a rocky mountain face, from the top of which the eponymous waterfall flows into the river that borders the west edge of the village and continues down the mountain. The place isn't exactly hidden, but if you don't know your way around, it'd be hard to find without a native guide.

The villagers are wary of the outsiders at first, even more than the soldiers had been -- the rural Dendarii are as superstitious as they come -- but, slowly convinced of their good intentions, start to warm to them. They're a blunt, hardy people, largely uneducated and tending toward the most extreme of Barrayaran sensibilities, but they are undeniably fierce. The General Count trusts them, so they'll be more or less civil (by Barrayaran standards, anyway), but you might catch the occasional scrutinizing, watchful stare. With Cetagandans in camp and exotics among them, they border on hostile, especially those who are visibly nonhuman. They keep their heads down enough to keep from getting into trouble with the soldiers, but they do not like you at all.

Not everyone in Riverfall speaks English -- Russian is everyone's first language, and only about half the village has any passable command of English. Thankfully, the village's Speaker Yakiv Gura speaks English, if heavily accented. They're clearly stretching to the limit to help the camp, but to the Dendarii, there's no higher act than one in the Count's service, especially when it comes to fighting this war.

barrayar
Even after scoring themselves a little extra food, morale in the camp is at an all-time low. The miserably dangerous weather hasn't let up, food is still heavily rationed, and everyone is still at least a little tired, cold, and hungry all of the time. It doesn't help that they've lost a few soldiers in the last couple of weeks, and in Riverfall, too, some villagers have died of the cold despite their relative warmth and safety, mostly children. This is hardly the first harsh winter they've faced, but that doesn't stop the inexorable loss that comes with it. Some villagers may be somberly putting their loved ones to rest in the village graveyard when the outsiders are in town.

But Piotr finally calls Negri out as a spy sent by his aide-de-camp Captain Ezar Vorbarra, partly to deliver a message and partly to test Piotr, because Ezar loves coy bullshit. However, he does learn that both Ezar and Prince Xav Vorbarra, Olivia and Sonia's father, are en route to Vorkosigan's District with relief supplies from Beta Colony secured by Xav's ambassadorial connections and tireless lobbying. Once Piotr judges it safe to release this information, it bring with it a bit of hope -- and to seal the deal, Piotr and Olivia arrange a celebration of sorts in the village.

Finally outing the ring of reason in the camp helps to bolster morale, too. Vorhalas is interrogated, and the names of his co-conspirators are revealed: Lieutenant Boris Vortala, who killed himself in disgrace shortly after his fast-penta interrogation at ghem-General Zefyst's hand, and their commander Captain Aaron Vorbataille. Vorbataille has, of course, already started to make his escape -- but with the help out of the outsiders, he won't get very far. Once Piotr is satisfied with Vorbataille's interrogation as well, both men are put to execution, but not by beheading as Doctor ghem-Miko: the sentence for treason is death by public starvation and exposure, and in this weather, it doesn't take long. They are publicly and emphatically denounced as traitors with no honor to speak of, sending a very clear message. Although this might seem like a gruesome sight to the outsiders, to the Barrayarans this is simply how it goes, and very few of them are sorry to see these traitors suffer, particularly as Vorhalas was the one responsible for their food shortage in the first place.

Reports from those soldiers and outsiders who were in the village at the same time as the Cetagandan field science team present the General Count with another troubling problem, however: the implications of the Cetagandans building a device that could control this phenomenon are terrifying, particularly to this threadbare resistance movement. But sabotage seems hardly a worthy solution, either. This is the only lead they have on sending the outsiders home, and so many of them have already put their lives on the line for the cause of a planet that otherwise nothing to most of them. There would be no honor in robbing them of their only chance to return home. But whether they should continue to allow the Cetagandans to proceed with their research or try to find a way to copy their plans themselves, a dubiously possible venture at best, weighs heavily on his mind. It only complicates his strategic concerns further, but by his military orders in the next couple of weeks, at least one thing is clear: he wants Cetagandan bodies.

camp
Morale is critically low among the soldiers, particularly after a few casualties during a recent skirmish with a Cetagandan patrol, but spirits definitely begin to lift with news of relief. The soldiers are now more or less accustomed to the outsiders' place in the camp, and they're even starting to become a little friendlier toward them, particularly those who've been involved in the war effort. They might invite outsiders to play card or dice games with them, or share a conversation over an admittedly meager meal, or better still, bond with them in the true Barrarayan form: over a lot of alcohol.

Negri has more or less built himself a niche in the camp, and doesn't look like he's going anywhere any time soon. But he isn't the only spy around. They desperately need a man on the inside, particularly with the troubling news about the wormhole device, and right now, that man is Byerly Vorrutyer. Starting next month, Piotr is sending him on assignment to infiltrate the Cetagandan base under the cover of a cowardly collaborator.

party
By the time they have the party on the 21st, the villagers have warmed up to the outsiders a little, but they don't really bond until the party. With what little they have to share, they scrape together as much of a feast as they can: not much, but by this month's standards, any hot meal prepared with fresh ingredients seems absolutely decadent. And because this is Barrayar there is, of course, plenty of liquor, that Barrayaran moonshine maple mead not the least among them, and there's no shortage of wine or vodka, either.

The hillfolk light lanterns all around the village and raise large tarps to cover the open center of the village where they usually hold gatherings. Inside, protected from the wind and lit by the bonfire and braziers placed around the perimeter, it's actually almost warm. Every villager who's ever laid hand to an instrument seems to gather there to play music all night long, an energetic mix of lively folk music and raucous drinking songs. Anyone with any musical talent would be welcome to join them as well. There's plenty of dancing, too, very little of it formal or complicated, but everyone's having a good time for the first time in weeks, maybe months, and the mood is infectious. By the end of the night, morale seems to have risen overall, and people in camp have something real to look forward to. The partygoing visitors are put up in warmed tents within the tarped village center or in the villagers' homes where they have room. Come morning, they'll head back, but for just one night, it's almost like there isn't even a war on.

missions
Outsiders have been assisting with moving supplies between the camp and Riverfall all throught he rest of the month, and it mostly goes smoothly. Vorbataille is caught on the 20th, although he and Vorhalas aren't publicly executed until a few days later, when Piotr is satisfied with the intelligence he's extracted. By the time he gets Vorbataille's name out of Vorhalas, the traitorous Captain has already fled -- but thanks to Carolina, Duv and Zarya, he's dragged back to camp for his interrogation.

That evening, Maine and William have the misfortune of encountering a dragon -- Darkstalker is on a mission with a Cetagandan patrol, and they run right smack into each other. A fight breaks out, but ultimately Darkstalker and the Cetagandans come out on top, and the outsiders and Barrayarans are forced to retreat -- but not before managing to kill a Cetagandan soldier or two, just barely escaping with one of the bodies.

Miles finds himself in a terrible position when a guard patrol shift goes horribly wrong in a skirmish against some Cetagandans, resulting in the death of their squad leader and a very ugly aftermath.

Zarya, William, Beth and Miles are in Riverfall with some Barrayaran soldiers on a supply run when a Cetagandan field science team arrives with a few exotics in tow. This is a rare chance to learn more about the Cetagandans' scientific exploits, and among other things, they find out that whatever it is that brought them here, the Cetagandan scientists are convincede it has something to do with the wormhole that collapsed 700 years ago.

The unabridged mission writeup is here.

cetaganda
The Cetagandans are a notoriously tight-lipped bunch, but they're blowing away most of the smoke surrounding their wormhole science research. As has been alluded, they're currently working on a device to harness the phenomenon that brought all the exotics here in the first place, and hopefully find a way to send them all home with it. They invite any exotics with scientific expertise to a series of interviews about neurology, astrophysics, and mechanical engineering. None of the advisement they receive helps to solve one of their most critical problems -- that of generating a Necklin field to match the one that must have surrounded each exotic -- but it certainly puts them closer to their goal, particularly in the area of neurology, and they're hardly going to stop there. But it's clear that the mathematicians and astrophysicists on base don't have sufficient expertise to solve the most complex equations before them. But on the brighter side of things, in the interest of this scientific exchange, they're letting the lab techs help a little more beyond just grunt work.

Meanwhile, the genetics project that seems so strange and arcane to the exotic carries on, largely behind the scenes, although Diya is increasingly at odds with her husband and even some of her senior staff, particularly the precocious Amai ghem-Soren. But there is very real purpose behind it -- and far more than just one -- and Diya d'Zefyst is a woman of great ambition. And more than anything else, she is haut.

Unfortunately, the relative peace on base is abruptly broken when Daryl, Lakshmi and Wash all manage to escape in a wild breakout attempt on the 25th. York and Ratchet are left behind, and as a result, some of their privileges revoked. They're now being watched a little more closely as a result.

base
Overall, despite simmering tensions under the surface and the miserable weather, life on base seems to be going more or less smoothly around them. The Cetagandans have had some recent victories against the Barrayarans, so morale is high. Unfortunately, after the breakout they begin cracking down on security with the exotics -- going back to treating the exotics a little more like they did when they first arrived. They aren't under guard, but after the 25th, they are being watched.

They still maintain that insistent veneer of civility, however, breaking only in cases where they feel the need or security risk is significant enough. The ghem on base remain overall cordial and courteous to the exotics as they ever were, which is to say considerably and always with a touch of smug superiority. With her success at the party earlier this month followed by her performance in the moon-poetry garden, the often-sequestered Amai ghem-Soren is seen more around the base.

moon-poetry party
The moon-poetry party is about three hours long and steeped in ceremony, each participant taking their turn to recite. This is, apparently, not a recitation of one's own work, but rather selections of classical Cetagandan poems, and in so referencing something culturally ubiquitous, each makes a statement in its mere selection and juxtapositions. If you pay close enough attention, you might notice that each participant has very subtly coordinated their outfits to further complement the theme of their recitation. Although there is a definite dignity to the party, it doesn't take much to pick up on the fact that this is yet another arena ghem use to try and socially one-up one another. Among the participants are both the Chief Medical Officer Colonel Faro ghem-Naru and Doctor Amai ghem-Soren, whose performance was especially well-received, the theme apparently being something about subtle passions.

missions
The science interviews with the exotics go more or less well, although not quite so hopeful as the Cetagandans were hoping. They do, however, learn some things about FTL travel in other worlds as well as other kinds of neural implants.

On the evening of the 21st, York, Natasha and Kaidan accidentally bear witness to what is clearly some kind of travesty: clearly a human being, but both overgrown and underdeveloped, and exhibiting powers of hydrokinesis and psychic empathy, referred to only as a ba.

On the 23rd, Jasper, Lapis, Pearl and Darkstalker accompany some soldiers and a field science team to Riverfall village, coinciding with a visit from some outsiders and soldiers. They encounter some outsiders while there but also pick up a bit on what it is the Cetagandans are doing -- that the Necklin field problem still remains their biggest problem, and they've been getting conflicting orders from the higher ups lately.

The unabridged mission writeup is here.

Note: Negri and Zahal are available for threads by request only this round. Please hit up Madi or Ammay respectively if you want threads with either of those NPCs. You can also request a thread with Village Speaker Yakiv Gura if you want, in which case hit up Madi.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Beth's whirling around the room in a quick-footed dance, doing her best to follow the steps; they're simple, sure, but everyone else knows them already, so she has a little catching up to do. But eventually, she gets the hang of it and can sing and shout along with everyone else, her eyes up from her feet--

Just in time to see a tall figure with a fiddle (definitely a fiddle out here) bound into the mess, moving as gracefully through the circle as any of the villagers. She nearly stumbles while watching him, fascinated by the skill with which he plays and the ease with which he skips over the ground. It's not so different a Byerly from the one who sits around the campfire and guzzles mead, but there's something more to this performance, something so playful it seems like it must be for love of the music and the dance. It'd be so much effort otherwise.

When the song ends, she claps as loudly as anyone, eyes wide with delight, a smile caught on her lips.

He grins right back at her, for once nothing calculating or scheming or dishonest in his smile. He bows to her specifically, and then, breathing hard, exhilarated, he points the violin bow directly at her, picking her out from the crowd.

"A song," he demands over the noise of the crowd. "You promised a song." He tucks the violin back under his chin, eyes alight, face alive. "Start and I'll play."

He looks genuinely happy; it's strange, a little disarming, to see in him. You should've gone to music school. Whenever he's looked like he really meant something before, it's always been something terrible.

"We don't know any of the same songs," she calls back, but she's still smiling, coming over to him anyway. Quickly, she scrambles for an appropriate song. Something easy to follow along, something cheerful, something a lot of drunk Barrayarans will like. That means something traditional, but not one of the ballads, and that means--by the time she reaches Byerly, she has a song in mind.

She taps at the air for a measure, giving him the tempo, and then in a bright, clear voice, starts to sing. "As I was sittin' by the fire, eatin spuds and a-drinkin' porter, suddenly a thought came into my head. I'd like to marry Old Reilly's daughter..."

He can't do any of his tricks, no skips or hops while he's concentrating on her and her voice. Instead, his brow furrows, and his expression turns meditative, as he works out the melody.

The first few lines, he only provides the most basic accompaniment to her voice - a few notes in her key of choice, steady and low. As he starts understanding the shape of the melody, though, he plays along with her. By the second verse, he's already adding flourishes, harmonies, proper support to her singing. Perhaps shockingly, Byerly Vorrutyer does actually know how to take backseat to someone, at least musically: his playing is only there to draw more attention to her voice, complement it, rather than to showcase his own playing.

He's not the only one supporting her, either. The other players figure out the melody quickly, as well, and chime in. Before long she has the whole bad backing her, and the Barrayaran dancers whirling joyously to the novel song, laughing and happy. Byerly grins at her over his fiddle.

Beth's gaze shifts between the crowd of dancers and Byerly, watching and listening to him as she leads the song. He picks it up quickly, even more proof of his skill--and so does the band and the audience, who make the three claps in the chorus raucous. She grins back around the words--the major and the corporal and the captain sought her--at Byerly. His fingers move swiftly over the fiddle's fingerboard; if she didn't have her own singing to do, she'd be tempted to stand there and watch.

It's a quick song, even if you repeat the chorus one last time at the end. When it's done, she takes a quick curtsy before applauding with the rest of the tent. Byerly and the rest of the musicians deserve just as much attention--they're the ones who followed along without knowing the melody to start with.

"Not bad," she says to Byerly, the biggest understatement of the night, just under the din as the band starts up another tune.

He waves his bow in quick acknowledgment of the applause, and then hands the violin off to someone else. Up here in these hills, an astonishing number of people have musical talent; these instruments get passed around from hand to hand, everyone taking a turn with the many instruments they're able to play. "Not bad yourself," he says with an open smile. Then he leans back and puffs out a heavy breath.

"Pfoooo," he sighs, a ridiculous sound, but he's cheerful rather than mocking. Hell, he's barely even self-deprecating. "I'm getting old."

"Yeah," she agrees, a sort of thank you without the words. She's not really sure she believes it yet--not that she thinks she was terrible, but it doesn't quite feel like it happened. Singing, backed by a real band, featuring a fiddler who clearly knows what he's doing, entertaining a group of complete strangers... Once, maybe she would have dreamed of something like this, though even then, she'd have known it wasn't likely to happen. But it did, in a small, rowdy kind of way, and she's still a little breathless.

And laughing at Byerly anyway, in a kind way. The kind of way that's meant to say you're being ridiculous, but right now, I don't mind you a bit. It's a strange sort of truce they've come to; she doesn't want to think too hard about it. "Your thirties aren't old. Come back in twenty years."

He laughs back at her. "Oh, that's rich, coming from a teenager," he mocks. But it's a gentle sort of mockery. It's a truce indeed, it seems. Who knows how long it'll last, before they're at each other's throat once again, but until then - He's positively friendly.

"You don't know my aches and pains. I have plenty. I'm nearly forty, you know."

"I don't have to know your aches and pains. My daddy was in his fifties when he had me." Come on, Byerly, you aren't going to be shown up by a man who lived to be seventy-something, are you? It's always a good night when she can think of the dead with love rather than loneliness, and this is one of those nights. Her smile doesn't falter when she asks, "How old are you, anyway?"

She'd guessed closer to thirty than forty, but Byerly's the kind of man who's hard to be sure about.

"Asking a maiden her age," he gasps, pressing a hand to his heart in mock-offense, fluttering his eyelashes in a feminine sort of way. For just a moment, he's very camp, very drag, tilting his hip to the side and pouting - "I ought to slap you for your cheek, you scoundrel." Then he flips up his hand, like a maiden succumbing to pressure - "But if you must know, I'm thirty-four. Ish." It's hard to say with all this time-traveling...He'd have had his birthday back home, wouldn't he?

"And yourself?" He holds up a thumb and squints, like he's trying to tell her height. With broad mockery, he says, "I'd guess - hmmm - eleven?"

Beth laughs, though something in the back of her mind says see, see, this is why you can't trust him. He puts on personas the way other people put on coats. But at a moment like this, it's funny, even charming, and she wants tonight to be something better than other conversations they've had. She quiets that little voice--just for now and who cares if he's pretending to be someone else tonight?--and raises her brow at him.

"I already told you that," she answers, a little smug. If he doesn't remember, she's not going to repeat it--not without some needling, anyway. "If you heard eleven, you're going deaf."

"You did, you did." His eyes light up with mockery, even if it's mockery without Byerly's usual cruel edge. No, this is positively playful, joyous and warm. "Nine, it was...eight? Eight years old..."

"Hilarious." She could as easily be arguing with Shawn--just add in the right accent, maybe a joke about her height, and it'd feel nearly the same. It's a thought she shoves away hard. Instead, she rolls her eyes. Fondly, inasmuch as rolling your eyes can be fond (and with teenage girls, it definitely can be).

"Ah, that's right!" he cries, raising a single finger. He lowers it, and grins - "Sixty-six. That was how old. Hence the general world-weary attitude."

"So I'm older than you now?" she asks, laughing. It's stupid--she knows it's stupid, it's the kind of joke you tell an actual eleven-year-old--but it's fun. Weird, silly, and kind of wonderful. Beth nudges his shoulder with hers. "You're gonna have to give up on all those aches and pains."

He laughs in return. It...feels nice. It feels strange. He's not the sort of person who laughs when something is silly - his sense of humor runs to the nasty, the edged, because he is sophisticated and elite in his tastes - but some combination of the night and what lies before him and his drunkenness and the sheer exhilaration of music...

"As you say," he says, bowing to her. "I defer to your superior wisdom. Any other lessons I should learn, Grandmere?"

Beth rolls her eyes. Grandmother, right. (Right? It sounds like it probably is, but it also sounds French, and she never took it in school.) Advice is a little beyond her--it's Byerly, it's impossible to come up with a line or two that would make his life better--but she hmms over the possibility for a moment. "Trust other people, but don't let them hurt you. You think they have any cake left?"

That was the best part of this entire night, the best among a lot of good things. Along with the hot food, some kind of dense cake made denser by all the alcohol it's been soaked in. It's not all that sweet, and it's definitely not the kind of birthday cake smothered in frosting that you start to miss when you've lived in the wilderness too long, but it's still dessert. There's something special about dessert, even a cake that feels like it could be used as a doorstop.

His eyes crinkle up in amusement. "Ah, you know, if you just showed a bit more hedonism like that, my girl, we'd have gotten on from the first. Let us investigate whether there is more cake. I could use some of my own."

He strolls in the direction of the food table, asking as he does, his voice light and wry, "And tell me, do you have any tips for how to trust without being hurt? That seems to me a perfect paradox. Impossible."

When he turns her words back on her, she realizes just what she said. It hits her hard enough that she looks away, her brows knitting together in something like consternation.

She wonders what Michonne would think if she'd heard that. I still believe what I told you, she'd want to explain. When you care about people, hurt is kind of part of the package. But--

But she was so much younger then. The intervening months have changed her.

She looks over the mostly empty plates that remain on the long table of food, because it means she doesn't have to look at Byerly. He'll be mocking, or he'll have one of those weird, clear-eyed moments of what looks like truthfulness, and she's pretty sure she doesn't want to see either. "I mean--give people a chance. Be honest with them. But if they use you, screw them."

Beth looks so strange in that moment - pained, uncertain, embarrassed. Self-conscious at being caught out talking about trust and kindness? Or at being caught out talking about it by him specifically? He's tempted to point out to her that her heart is - has always been - on her sleeve. Surely you don't think I actually bought that cool-and-indifferent act, dear girl... But if he says that, she'll think he's impugning her ferocity. Which - that is not in doubt. Lord, no.

Do not be ashamed, Beth. To be through what you've been through and to be able to still love, to trust - to open yourself to hurt but fight for yourself - You are neither dissolved to nothing nor hardened beyond recognition. You should be proud - you haven't merely survived, but survived intact. But oh, he'd die before saying all that.

So, instead: "Ah. But that does not, however, keep you really safe. You still end up hurt. Isn't that cost too high? - Ooh, look, spice cakes!" With real enthusiasm he goes over to the little plate of pryanniki. "Tell me you tried these."

It feels like betraying something she used to be, something she used to believe so strongly, to say something like that. (But it's not--not really, is it? She'd wanted them to get rid of the Governor, she'd wanted them to defend what was theirs. She's never trusted indiscriminately. It's just that her trust has usually been returned, not manipulated.) And there's no way she can explain it, especially not to Byerly. Figure it out later. It's not like anyone from home's going to hear from you for a while.

"Nothing's safe--" she's about to say, but he rescues her from having to explain herself further. Purposely, she thinks. Byerly can be generous, when he wants to be, and more often than not, he's been generous with her.

In any case, she's not about to refuse the opportunity to drop the subject in favour of spice cakes. Beth follows him the step or two over, carefully picking up one of the little cakes--they look more like cookies to her--and taking a little bite. (It'll last longer this way.) "Oh, my God. This is really good, what's in it?"

"Hang me if I know," he snorts. "Do I look like a baker? Honey, I suppose. Ginger? Spices." He shrugs elegantly, then picks up one of his own and dips it into a mug of maple mead before taking a bite. He gives a grunt of pure pleasure - yes, that's the right way to eat these.

"There are Barrayaran treats with more elegance, I fancy," he says. "Macarons and tortes napoleons and pot a creme - but for sheer rustic pleasure, nothing can compare to these. It tastes like childhood." He dips it again in alcohol and nibbles, closing his eyes in enjoyment of it.

"You look like someone who's eaten them before," Beth retorts, but it's not without fondness. Breaking off another small bite, she decides they taste a little like ginger snaps, but not quite the same.

Watching Byerly eat is fascinating, and maybe a little voyeuristic. Which seems to her like a weird thing to say about somebody eating, but she's pretty sure he likes these things more than every swallow of mead he's taken since they got here. (Provided he's being honest--but she wants to think he is. It'd be stupid to lie about cookies. The whole idea seems like it'd be insulting, really, and she's not sure why.) "Maybe for you. Childhood tastes like vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles on top."

There is some honesty to him. For all his talk of macarons and tortes, these simple sweets really were what he'd had in the good times. The impoverished nobility still needed to live like nobility, and so for the first ten years or so of Byerly's life they'd employed a cook; she was a rough prole woman who made this sort of rustic fare, dry spice cakes and honey bread and hearty stews. Then dear papa had decided the expense was too high and sacked her without fanfare and then they'd all lived primarily on the incompetent work of the lone family steward - and then, blessedly, Nadine had decided she was going to teach herself to cook to save them all from death due to disgust. The memories are more bitter than sweet, to be fair, so that is a lie: he doesn't close his eyes and smile blissfully because of the childhood. But the taste really is exquisite. Unmatched. That, he isn't faking.

He isn't faking his curiosity, either, when she comments about her own childhood. "Now," he says, "ice cream is of course familiar to me. But rainbow sprinkles? What on earth are those? They sound charming."

"They're..." She pauses, her face once more a frown--though it isn't a pained one, this time, just thoughtful. "I don't know what they are."

Rainbow sprinkles are the kind of thing that you never have to understand to enjoy. What are they even made of? Sugar, probably, but she can't picture how they're made. There's something strangely magical about that, even a decade past the age when she'd believed in magic, but it makes them hard to describe.

"They're like candy, I guess, but you only eat them on top of other things. You sprinkle them, get it?" Beth grins. "And they're all different colors, usually. Little tiny sticks, like--" She barely holds her finger and thumb apart. "Really little. They really don't have sprinkles in this dimension?"

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