And now that he had looked down, though he felt her gaze very keenly, he could not look up and meet it again.
Worse, she was reaching out, absurdly. Her hand – still shaking – had stopped halfway across the table, unmistakably reaching out. It did not close the distance, but nor did it withdraw. He stared at it, dumbfounded.
It certainly attracts attention. That, he could not argue with. I suppose I don’t really… You could have hurt them, and I –
He saw her lips move in the shape of, That terrifies me, though her voice was almost too quiet to hear over the breeze and the sounds that drifted in from the street below. Strange to think of life moving on out there, a busy – if not bustling – street with not a clue what was happening just a storey above their heads. He could hear the occasional rattle of a coach, and then even the whooping shouts of children. That particularly hurt.
Terrified was precisely the word he might have used; at least he could take comfort in precision. When she spoke again, he looked up. Again he could feel a lump forming in his throat. How he wished he could rid himself of that habit; it was becoming particularly distracting.
“Nor I,” he replied, frowning. He could finally drag his eyes back up to hers now. “I thought that I knew what I believed and what I was.” He had the most horrible feeling she might understand. Was this truly Aurelie Steerpike – who had once fussed with him over breaking the slightest of rules – a fugitive, a criminal, who had quietly apologized to him as the thorns of her diablerie had pierced his eyes?
Why? The question stuck in his throat. He knew the answer, in theory; it was written into every line of her. But – why now? Why after ten years? Opportunity only? She had told him that once she thought she belonged there – why had she changed her mind?
(Why had he?)
He reached out and laid his hand on hers, awkward and hesitant. It shook underneath his, which was as still and stiff as his uniform, though he could tell she was trying with great will and near success to keep it still. His fingers curled slightly around her hand. He wished very badly that they were children again, facing some fear together like Peter and his friends; he wished very badly that they were Aurelie and Des. The deadpan, dry echo of his voice came back to him: Alas.
“Perhaps it was – merely the – strain, yesterday,” he went on, doubtful. “I have always been certain that I – I have never come to them, to the mona, with any doubt – they have told me that I cast with unwise frequency, but I have always been quite certain that I was right…”
He was creepingly aware of her, vividly aware, sitting in nothing but stillness and his own field. She was not like him, should not have been speaking of this around her, and yet…
“I am a danger in –” He swallowed, sharply and suddenly aware of the bittersweet irony. “In ways I cannot predict,” he went on, precisely-enunciated in his Bastian accent, as if debriefing. “I must accept this. I do not know what to do about it. I do not wish to be a danger to you, most of all.” He felt vaguely dizzy.
Would he ever cast on her? He tried to imagine it. His mind turned away, aggravatingly difficult, as it did from so many painful things - as if turning a blind eye. Only it lingered, now, like an itch.