#cynthia sinclair

Cynthia (The Body) Sinclair

Here and now your turn to take my request!

Here!

Much to Viola’s dismay, the stars winking down at her were in the unmistakable shape of a scorpion. She shivered under a sky no one should be seeing for some time yet. They were still in the early days of Virgo—her least favorite month if only for the new round of guesses regarding her birthday—which meant one would have to be an idiot or an insomniac to see this particular constellation. Viola Izmane, of course, was neither. The door to the alley swung open, scaring off a murder of crows lurking overhead, and did not slam closed. She crossed her arms, cocked out a hip, and flashed a smile for a familiar face. “Well, then,” she said. “I suppose that’s my cue.” “So it would seem,” Cynthia said. She flicked a strand of ebony hair from her face and leveled dark eyes at Viola. There was a sickly tinge to her skin from the studio lights. “Is that really what you’re wearing?” Viola offered a twirl in answer. The heel of her shoe balanced precariously on the uneven pavement, but held. She elected for a long-sleeved dress with the chill in mind. A section of the bodice had been cut out, revealing her collarbones and the barest hint of cleavage. The skirt had once been to her ankles, but she chopped off the length in the front to allow more room for movement. All said, it was entirely normal attire. “What was I meant to wear?” “You put earrings on.” One hand raised to the shell of her ear, fiddling with the silver it found. “And?” Cynthia rolled her eyes. “I’m off to soothe some nerves. Don’t die.” “As if I could,” she said with a charming smile before slipping past Cynthia into the back halls of the studio. Immediately, Viola’s nose wrinkled in distaste. Her father kept the place clean and in good standing, nothing like the den of smoke and drugs it’s become since his death. Now, women wind around patrons like lustful ivy, desperate for a smoke or a touch. Men used to perform here, too, but any girl with money and a brain avoids Cygnus like a plague. There’s no market for it, he told her the second time she came, less angry than the first visit but just as petulant about the sale. Of course, she had purred in response. What is life without coin? She could still imagine her mother in this place, seated on the stage amidst a sea of musicians. She used to braid her hair so it wouldn’t fall in her face. She used to hold her bow in a precise grip. Her nails were trimmed short to avoid catching on the strings, but she made a point to paint them. They were a vibrant shade of blue when she died.