Currently Drafting a YA Fantasy With a Sapphic Protagonist

The dinner had gone without incident, which meant Larke had surpassed her own expectations. Not a single person had looked at her as though she did not belong, as though by taking up space at all, she took up too much. By the time they’d reached dessert—the Strugan king had certainly flaunted his wealth tonight—Larke had even stopped wondering whether Strugan prison cells had as much standing water in them as the ones at home. In Procella, a dry prison cell was called an available flat, fit for a family.

Now alone in her room, Larke worked to remove her ceremonial scabbard and knife. Instead, the buckle caught tight against her beaded coat. Cursing, she tried to figure out on which corner the beaded thread had stuck. A knock at the door ended her cursing, though she knew firsthand that most nobles wouldn’t care about being overheard.

“You may enter!” She said it before she figured out what to do with the caught scabbard, and scrambled to wrap it once more around her waist. Dimitrea entered, already having changed from her formal gown. Larke bowed to her reflexively, and in the process, ripped the thread of beads. They scattered across the ground, a dozen shining balls of silver. Larke dropped to gather them, her back stiff, only to freeze when Dimitrea dropped a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. Then, “you did well tonight.” And call it the stress of travel or the fear of discovery or whatever, Larke’s throat tightened at her words.