(There is quite a lot about this particular moment that informs Emery, with the sudden force of a battering ram*, that Wilde is no longer the precocious boy who trotted along at Lorne's heels when they were lads growing up in the village. Those marks speak to a grown man's experiences.)
"Right," he says, watches after Wilde as he goes to boil the water. Then he comes back to himself, rubs absently at his beard, and heads for the stairs. He rests his walking stick against the wall near the foot of them, then heads up into the loft.
The blankets are found without difficulty, and Emery is too much a habitually orderly person not to fold each one into a neat stack before he carries then back downstairs. He pauses when he catches sight of the dyeing materials and lingers over them with a practitioner's interest, then returns to the stairs and heads back down.
"Blankets," he announces, and carries them over to whatever surface looks cleanest to set them down.
-- (* it's the battering ram of repressed bisexuality)
no subject
"Right," he says, watches after Wilde as he goes to boil the water. Then he comes back to himself, rubs absently at his beard, and heads for the stairs. He rests his walking stick against the wall near the foot of them, then heads up into the loft.
The blankets are found without difficulty, and Emery is too much a habitually orderly person not to fold each one into a neat stack before he carries then back downstairs. He pauses when he catches sight of the dyeing materials and lingers over them with a practitioner's interest, then returns to the stairs and heads back down.
"Blankets," he announces, and carries them over to whatever surface looks cleanest to set them down.
--
(* it's the battering ram of repressed bisexuality)