Bethas 15, 2720 - Evening
"So it seems," she agreed. Whatever was under the lightness of her tone she didn't comment on. There was a breath while she hesitated to tell him Sish's name. Sish, Destroyer of Hours--that was easy enough to offer, wasn't it? Harder was the thoughts that came with it. Thoughts of a book, wrapped in plain brown paper, sitting at the bottom of a drawer in her desk. Underneath old letters, stray pens, other bric-a-brac, that smooth, rectangular package didn't linger in her mind. Normally. Until now.
It's from a book, she thought dizzily, a book I bought for you. Because she still couldn't have lent her copy, dog-eared and worn. Her Mama's copy. But it was her favorite, and she had seen it at the bookstore not two weeks before--before the end of everything, or where she had to mark it. That paper-covered packet was meant to have been a birthday present; they'd never made it that far. Cerise thought she should have gotten rid of it, but somehow it was still there. "Sish, Destroyer of Hours," she said at last, then carefully set the subject aside.
What was she supposed to say to that? There had been something there, something half-said. Cerise made a noise, half agreement and half denial. She didn't know--Cerise could guess, but she couldn't be sure. How the two things connected--the hangings in Vienda, his schedule at the bar. Cerise's gut twisted with heavy premonition. Whatever it was that had set his jaw, Cerise didn't think she had the right to ask anymore.
He was right, of course, in a broad sort of way. She didn't know how to say that of course she could have come to see him any time she wanted. She had assumed it wouldn't have been a welcome intrusion, given everything. Nothing good would have come of it, throwing herself at someone she knew (did she?) wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Cerise Vauquelin would not beg for anyone's attention. And, more importantly still, the consequences wouldn't have been hers to bear.
They hadn't, in the end, been hers even now. So much for her good intentions. There was no small amount of guilt laced in with her stupid hopefulness as she walked by his side and breezily declared herself a juvenile delinquent. Even as she smiled, even as she let their auras mingle together, even as she nudged him with her arm.
Idiot that she was, Cerise still thrilled at all of it. Wishful thinking, just wishful thinking. A little piece of something just for this walk. Would the wound heal cleaner now, after opening to let it bleed full and true? Was this, then, what closure was? Was that what she wanted?
No. She didn't want that at all.
Em's laugh hurt that time, and still she held out her hand. Hadn't she earned at least that much selfishness? A year and a half for her to realize something she'd never said, a bitter kind of clarity. Cerise didn't want closure. She could have found that, if she'd wanted to. Could have at least found some measure of peace and calm, if she hadn't tore that hurt open over and over again.
The fingers that brushed hers were warm, broken only by the cold of the rings on them. Flashy as always, Cerise thought dazedly. Her pale hand came to clasp his, brushing her thumb over one of them before squeezing tight with sudden ferocity. She released the pressure but not the grasp. He could pull away from her, if he wanted to. But only if he wanted to; Cerise would hold on.
"Ah," she said and swallowed. He's been sick, she could have said. Did you know? I never knew what worked, in the end. Nobody would tell me. "I didn't... I see. Of course you wouldn't... of course."
What was that like? Cerise wanted to ask, suddenly, thinking of the bare, crumbling face of her stepmother in the mirror. What was it like, for your family to love you? That was old territory. Just a rawness she carried all the time, as part of her as her hair, the color of her eyes. Old and worn, and irrelevant.
Of what--but Em had wanted? What had he... What was it, to him, that he'd given up? She hadn't known what it was to her until it was too late--had he?This hurt her, too, clinging on like this, stoking all that anger in her breast. A tide that ebbed and flowed, but never disappeared.
"I didn't know," she said at last, finding some clarity. Cutting through the mess of her head with it. Sish called out overhead. "I never knew--I wasn't sure... I thought, at least, you wouldn't want to see me. Whatever it was he had done."
Untangle those fingers, she thought to herself. Pull away. You are being selfish, Cerise Vauquelin. Think of consequences properly, for once in your entire clocking life. She couldn't quite seem to do it, anymore than she had stopped herself from walking through that door earlier in the night. All her studying and training and fighting, and just unclasping her hand took more strength than she had.