How is it that there is a bookseller in this city she hasn't met yet, she must meet this man—
Ness visibly restrains herself from spending too much time poring over the card, imagining what this Monsieur Walding is like, pre-scripting the conversation and how to describe what she wants out of her book stand. She sets the card on her bedside table, close to hand but not her focus, at the moment.
"Thank you, Madame," she says, with all the depth of gratitude she can muster. If she'd managed to do as she'd intended from the start, go two years, even a year, into her time in Thedas before resorting to this, she'd have found these little solutions herself. She'd have made it a point to. In half a year she taught herself to write with her left hand, taught herself to tie her laces with one, to feed herself and dress herself and tend her own hair with one hand and no mirror—but there's so much to account for, so many gaps to fill in. Too much to think of on her own. Having help, without having to ask for it—it means so much.
But there's no call to get weepy about it. Madame de Cedoux isn't here for her to cry all over about the effects of this thing she did to herself. Ness smiles, soft and a little sardonic as she leans toward the folder to peruse the work in front of her.
"I was told before this that I need to rest, but somehow I imagine this is not what the Doctor intended."
no subject
Ness visibly restrains herself from spending too much time poring over the card, imagining what this Monsieur Walding is like, pre-scripting the conversation and how to describe what she wants out of her book stand. She sets the card on her bedside table, close to hand but not her focus, at the moment.
"Thank you, Madame," she says, with all the depth of gratitude she can muster. If she'd managed to do as she'd intended from the start, go two years, even a year, into her time in Thedas before resorting to this, she'd have found these little solutions herself. She'd have made it a point to. In half a year she taught herself to write with her left hand, taught herself to tie her laces with one, to feed herself and dress herself and tend her own hair with one hand and no mirror—but there's so much to account for, so many gaps to fill in. Too much to think of on her own. Having help, without having to ask for it—it means so much.
But there's no call to get weepy about it. Madame de Cedoux isn't here for her to cry all over about the effects of this thing she did to herself. Ness smiles, soft and a little sardonic as she leans toward the folder to peruse the work in front of her.
"I was told before this that I need to rest, but somehow I imagine this is not what the Doctor intended."