Mmm, perhaps not. [Alia pauses in her painting to wipe her hands on her bare legs, leaving them streaked with red, like blood, like the sun on the sands. She leaves little smudges in Lauralae’s hair as she reaches out, starts to gather the thick, silky locks into sections, one, two, three.] Nothing in this life is simple, I think. We are too complicated creatures to be straightforward.

[A little sigh, then Alia shifts position so she’s sitting more comfortably, legs on either side of the other young woman, knees bracketing her hips, tugging her hair gently until she leans back a bit. Once settled, she begins carefully braiding the sections of hair together, inky black kissed by crimson.] So whenever I can, I make things simple. I make them easy – yes or no, foul or fair, accept or refuse.

[In her heart of hearts, Alia knows it’s not quite that easy, that the nature of what she is will never allow such purity of emotion or decision. But here, in this warm, sunny place, perhaps she can pretend. She braids for a moment in silence, then:] I think also that you are stronger than you seem. Than you believe in your pretty head. [One finger taps lightly on the top of Lauralae’s head, then smooths her hair down.] I think you have been underestimated, before. And it’s not fair to you.