He thinks, distantly, that he'd rather she remain seated and on the far side of that desk. Then she stabs herself in the hand.
Does the picture of them in this room look as strange and false as it feels? He imagines it more clearly than he lives in it: all bathed in speckled moonshine through the mottled glass of the stern windows, the light of a single lantern painting shifting highlights on the pommel of the pen knife and her hand where it's pinned, and something uncomprehending in his own expression as she drinks from the heavy silver phial on the chain about her neck. The air is cold thanks to the open window and the breeze whispering through it.
At her behest, he pulls the knife free.
Two thoughts: What's the fastest way to usher a lunatic out of one's cabin without drawing attention to it? And, her blood is going to stain his goddamn table top.
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Does the picture of them in this room look as strange and false as it feels? He imagines it more clearly than he lives in it: all bathed in speckled moonshine through the mottled glass of the stern windows, the light of a single lantern painting shifting highlights on the pommel of the pen knife and her hand where it's pinned, and something uncomprehending in his own expression as she drinks from the heavy silver phial on the chain about her neck. The air is cold thanks to the open window and the breeze whispering through it.
At her behest, he pulls the knife free.
Two thoughts: What's the fastest way to usher a lunatic out of one's cabin without drawing attention to it? And, her blood is going to stain his goddamn table top.