It’ll sting later: That flinch, the retreat. In the moment it’s only irritation.
Wren casts a baleful gaze back to Atticus, expression settling into something a little less shaken — and no more pleasant for it. Her head knocks into a loose nod as Simon takes the keys (his distance matters, she can’t say why that’s so); her eyes skim down to meet the magister’s hands, squinting against the bad angle, the gloom.
As though she could do anything about it.
That silvery mist may as well be relief condensed, a signal that they're one step closer to this farce's end. One step closer, and. And a great many between. Too many to count. No sense in bothering.
Wrists, she almost suggests, decides Ashlock can handle that much. No one's getting a library pass today.
"Stay down," To Benedict, now. She draws herself up as tall as she can manage, attempts poorly to turn a lean into a loom. "You and I will speak."
Later. Later, when words come a little more easily. Later, when she's not in her own bloody cell.
no subject
Wren casts a baleful gaze back to Atticus, expression settling into something a little less shaken — and no more pleasant for it. Her head knocks into a loose nod as Simon takes the keys (his distance matters, she can’t say why that’s so); her eyes skim down to meet the magister’s hands, squinting against the bad angle, the gloom.
As though she could do anything about it.
That silvery mist may as well be relief condensed, a signal that they're one step closer to this farce's end. One step closer, and. And a great many between. Too many to count. No sense in bothering.
Wrists, she almost suggests, decides Ashlock can handle that much. No one's getting a library pass today.
"Stay down," To Benedict, now. She draws herself up as tall as she can manage, attempts poorly to turn a lean into a loom. "You and I will speak."
Later. Later, when words come a little more easily. Later, when she's not in her own bloody cell.