Late Afternoon, 13 Dentis, 2719
Wharf-side of West and Long
Wharf-side of West and Long
Clark took his time, though not so long as he had before. Into this silence, too, Ava breathed stillness, and held. She did not quite look away this time, but glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, with an easy smile; it was only a question, she tried to say, although she wondered – uneasily – what he saw, and what he might already know.
She had left the question broad, but all the same, when he answered, she was surprised. She had thought he would narrow it, Ava realized; she had expected him to find a parsimonious answer. She hadn’t expected him to say he didn’t know so blatantly, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if he had come politely around to that.
Instead, he went around; he came at it from another way. Ava might have smiled, if she had been anyone else, at the careful politeness to his wife’s uncle, and, following on its heels, the lack of an opinion on Mr. Welkin, which revealed a good deal more than it hid in the pause which followed. She thought he hung on there, for just a moment, as if to make sure she knew.
His voice warmed on his wife’s name – Mrs. Cooke, he said, first, and the Tessa, once and a second time. Ava listened.
He looked – not quite at her, Ava thought; he didn’t meet her eyes. But he turned, and she could tell that he was looking at her at the edge of his gaze. She glanced sideways, too; she didn’t try to meet his eyes. His voice was very steady.
Are you a friend, Mr. Cooke? Ava nearly asked him; she nearly said it aloud, careful, up to the large man walking so carefully beside her. She wondered what he would have said, if she did. If it was a warning, Ava thought, it was a very careful one; if it was encouragement, it was even more cautious. He had, she understood, listened carefully, but then she had never mistaken his silence for a lack of attention.
“That’s very kind,” Ava said with a smile, lowering her gaze slightly, as if he’d offered her nothing more than a compliment on her words the night before. “I suppose some things are the same everywhere.”
They walked on; the streets grew familiar. They turned once more, and Ava recognized the scraggly tree across the way, and the pale yellow trim on the house beyond. The last few turns she knew, although there would be little sense in parting ways now.
Before long they were at the gate of the Goretti’s, the spot on the street where she’d descended from the carriage the day before. Clark held the gate for her, a little uncertain, standing back, his chin tucked down.
“Thank you,” Ava said, stepping through. She paused, just a moment, to let him close it and catch up; she glanced back up at him once more, just briefly. It was strange, Ava thought, when knowledge itself was the enemy of certainty; she thought of the little girl inside, and she smiled, warm and friendly, and let it fill her eyes, for all he did not seem ever to look at them. “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Mr. Cooke,” Ava said, gently, and left it there.
She had left the question broad, but all the same, when he answered, she was surprised. She had thought he would narrow it, Ava realized; she had expected him to find a parsimonious answer. She hadn’t expected him to say he didn’t know so blatantly, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if he had come politely around to that.
Instead, he went around; he came at it from another way. Ava might have smiled, if she had been anyone else, at the careful politeness to his wife’s uncle, and, following on its heels, the lack of an opinion on Mr. Welkin, which revealed a good deal more than it hid in the pause which followed. She thought he hung on there, for just a moment, as if to make sure she knew.
His voice warmed on his wife’s name – Mrs. Cooke, he said, first, and the Tessa, once and a second time. Ava listened.
He looked – not quite at her, Ava thought; he didn’t meet her eyes. But he turned, and she could tell that he was looking at her at the edge of his gaze. She glanced sideways, too; she didn’t try to meet his eyes. His voice was very steady.
Are you a friend, Mr. Cooke? Ava nearly asked him; she nearly said it aloud, careful, up to the large man walking so carefully beside her. She wondered what he would have said, if she did. If it was a warning, Ava thought, it was a very careful one; if it was encouragement, it was even more cautious. He had, she understood, listened carefully, but then she had never mistaken his silence for a lack of attention.
“That’s very kind,” Ava said with a smile, lowering her gaze slightly, as if he’d offered her nothing more than a compliment on her words the night before. “I suppose some things are the same everywhere.”
They walked on; the streets grew familiar. They turned once more, and Ava recognized the scraggly tree across the way, and the pale yellow trim on the house beyond. The last few turns she knew, although there would be little sense in parting ways now.
Before long they were at the gate of the Goretti’s, the spot on the street where she’d descended from the carriage the day before. Clark held the gate for her, a little uncertain, standing back, his chin tucked down.
“Thank you,” Ava said, stepping through. She paused, just a moment, to let him close it and catch up; she glanced back up at him once more, just briefly. It was strange, Ava thought, when knowledge itself was the enemy of certainty; she thought of the little girl inside, and she smiled, warm and friendly, and let it fill her eyes, for all he did not seem ever to look at them. “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Mr. Cooke,” Ava said, gently, and left it there.
