05-10-2020, 11:12 PM
Her eyes widened. The laughter sputtered from her unbidden; from the comment, or the most un-Pope-like snort, or the way his glance up betrayed a visitor hovering behind. She did not turn, at least in part because her own expression would not smooth itself of the amusement. She rather liked Father Ando. “I’m not sure you’re supposed to have a sense of humour either,” she confided. “But you’re certainly dressed the part.”
When he held open his hand, she straightened without pause and offered out the images in her lap. Even with Nox there had been some hesitation before she had allowed him to thumb through one of her sketchbooks, not through any lacking trust, but because it was like breaking off a piece of her soul: something that ought to be kept hidden, a compulsion. She’d never felt ownership of the drawings that burst forth of their own volition, not truly, and she had never been precious about her work either. But they weren’t things easily shared.
He was in them, though, and they felt as much his as they were hers, perhaps moreso for his affirmation. He recognised something in what he saw. He did know what they meant.
Her chin sank into her good hand as she watched him work through the pages. It bubbled in her briefly like a confession, but she chose not to narrate the manner of their birth, though consideration of it shifted her other hand a little tighter in her lap. Aware of the torn nails, though perhaps he would not look too deeply because of the bandaging around her palm. He’d known about that injury already, she recalled.
“My other what?” she asked instead, taking the offered hand with her uninjured one and sweeping herself up onto her feet. She scooped her bag with the other and hooked it on her shoulder, only wincing marginally. Curiosity held sway now, and if fear had gripped her before, she had clearly decided to trust him. Not that she noticed those currents in herself. She leaned to peer at the page he held, trying to see it with fresh eyes. Nox had mentioned dreams, and she’d carefully stepped around that thorny issue before now. Abstract images were one thing, even when they unravelled to real places and people, but she realised then that his manner suggested a familiarity.
It was disorientating, and long-held coping mechanisms pushed her forth to easier territory. “And what am I supposed to call you?”
When he held open his hand, she straightened without pause and offered out the images in her lap. Even with Nox there had been some hesitation before she had allowed him to thumb through one of her sketchbooks, not through any lacking trust, but because it was like breaking off a piece of her soul: something that ought to be kept hidden, a compulsion. She’d never felt ownership of the drawings that burst forth of their own volition, not truly, and she had never been precious about her work either. But they weren’t things easily shared.
He was in them, though, and they felt as much his as they were hers, perhaps moreso for his affirmation. He recognised something in what he saw. He did know what they meant.
Her chin sank into her good hand as she watched him work through the pages. It bubbled in her briefly like a confession, but she chose not to narrate the manner of their birth, though consideration of it shifted her other hand a little tighter in her lap. Aware of the torn nails, though perhaps he would not look too deeply because of the bandaging around her palm. He’d known about that injury already, she recalled.
“My other what?” she asked instead, taking the offered hand with her uninjured one and sweeping herself up onto her feet. She scooped her bag with the other and hooked it on her shoulder, only wincing marginally. Curiosity held sway now, and if fear had gripped her before, she had clearly decided to trust him. Not that she noticed those currents in herself. She leaned to peer at the page he held, trying to see it with fresh eyes. Nox had mentioned dreams, and she’d carefully stepped around that thorny issue before now. Abstract images were one thing, even when they unravelled to real places and people, but she realised then that his manner suggested a familiarity.
It was disorientating, and long-held coping mechanisms pushed her forth to easier territory. “And what am I supposed to call you?”