It is not the correct question, it is oblique, but only just. She can answer him, tell him something that is truth and have it be a lie in and of itself. The real answer is askance, just off the side of the question he didn't know to ask.
For a long moment, she is paralyzed by the threads of thought she must explain. They run through her like water trickling through fine cracks in glass, and she is not sure she is delicate enough to speak without shattering the thin veneer of peace she had found.
But he was like her.
They are standing close (too close and not nearly close enough) and a flightiness takes her features, just for a second. Her eyes dart away from him and she turns, moving to the table with nervous energy. She grasps that box again and holds it close, like a talisman, before she can bring herself to look back at him.
Where could she even begin? Was there a route that was circuitous enough that she could fool herself?
"I--" she starts and steps toward him. A piece of glass cracks under her foot and she recalls the ink she has spilled.
The idea that strikes her then is painful enough that he would be forgiven for thinking the shard had gone through her shoe. She grimaces and pauses in place--but there is nothing for it. She gives him a look, sad and wary, but nods quickly.
"Come." She commands, but softly, and turns to the doorway in the far wall. It leads away from the river, so it is not her workshop. The opposite is true, in fact, it is her bedroom.
It is deeply inappropriate to invite him in but this, of all places, is the one she trusts to hold her most private things. It is a small room, barely bigger than a closet itself, and the bed is just a frame with a woven hammock across it. The blanket is askew, cast off by her cloak and bag. This room doesnt have a window and, for that, she is glad. She cannot close the door in their wake because there is no door hanging.
Kit had done a truly exemplary job building this flooring but she had pried a board up nevertheless. She bends by the foot of her bed and pries it up as she waits for him. Inside she pulls free the book she had handed him once, and a small sheaf of parchment. The book is cast aside onto the bed and the first of the pages of parchment is held out for him. She doesn't rise, not yet, and her expression is pained even as she holds it out.
"To understand I must...explain. This...is my home."
The page is a drawing, a very meticulously rendered one in the style of the drawings inside her notebook. There is a watercolor wash over this, however, and the fine blues in the sky and water mean she had not wanted for money.
The city, because it is, is on both banks of a large river and half of it is atop a bridge. In her drawing there are a multitude of windows and doors. This was not like Northcliff.
no subject
For a long moment, she is paralyzed by the threads of thought she must explain. They run through her like water trickling through fine cracks in glass, and she is not sure she is delicate enough to speak without shattering the thin veneer of peace she had found.
But he was like her.
They are standing close (too close and not nearly close enough) and a flightiness takes her features, just for a second. Her eyes dart away from him and she turns, moving to the table with nervous energy. She grasps that box again and holds it close, like a talisman, before she can bring herself to look back at him.
Where could she even begin? Was there a route that was circuitous enough that she could fool herself?
"I--" she starts and steps toward him. A piece of glass cracks under her foot and she recalls the ink she has spilled.
The idea that strikes her then is painful enough that he would be forgiven for thinking the shard had gone through her shoe. She grimaces and pauses in place--but there is nothing for it. She gives him a look, sad and wary, but nods quickly.
"Come." She commands, but softly, and turns to the doorway in the far wall. It leads away from the river, so it is not her workshop. The opposite is true, in fact, it is her bedroom.
It is deeply inappropriate to invite him in but this, of all places, is the one she trusts to hold her most private things. It is a small room, barely bigger than a closet itself, and the bed is just a frame with a woven hammock across it. The blanket is askew, cast off by her cloak and bag. This room doesnt have a window and, for that, she is glad. She cannot close the door in their wake because there is no door hanging.
Kit had done a truly exemplary job building this flooring but she had pried a board up nevertheless. She bends by the foot of her bed and pries it up as she waits for him. Inside she pulls free the book she had handed him once, and a small sheaf of parchment. The book is cast aside onto the bed and the first of the pages of parchment is held out for him. She doesn't rise, not yet, and her expression is pained even as she holds it out.
"To understand I must...explain. This...is my home."
The page is a drawing, a very meticulously rendered one in the style of the drawings inside her notebook. There is a watercolor wash over this, however, and the fine blues in the sky and water mean she had not wanted for money.
The city, because it is, is on both banks of a large river and half of it is atop a bridge. In her drawing there are a multitude of windows and doors. This was not like Northcliff.