Caspian balks at the threshold of Mumsy’s room. Inadvertently, his eyes betray him for a moment, straying to the standing mirror, the contents of which he had only moments before rifled through. Against his ankle, trapped beneath his sock, the earrings and bracelets seem to pulse with incriminating resonance.
He tries to look in the corner opposite the mirror; wonders, with guilty flush, if that isn’t exactly what a petty thief would do, and settles instead with appearing entirely disinterested. Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, he wishes suddenly that he had divided the jewelry he’d just stolen across different parts of his person. As it stands, if someone found one they’d find all and if he had thought to at the very least stick one earring down one sock and its counterpoint down the other – or, more creatively, the turned-back cuff of a sleeve – he could say he at least exerted the barest minimum of precautionary measures.
At her bedside cabinet, she seems to pause several ticks too long in consideration of the contents of the drawer. Had he too obviously misplaced anything in it? Even the overzealous opening and shutting of the drawer would have knocked things around. Worse still would be if he had left anything lying about that previously hadn’t been; but even worse, perhaps, if he misplaced things where they ought not to be in his harried attempts to clear out the scene.
The key ends up being in the left cabinet instead of the right.
“See?” he tries to say spritely as she bustles back to him, key in hand. “Would have made a right mess of your things trying to track it down myself!”
She doesn’t bother with a response, and he hastily presses himself against the opposite wall to give her as wide a berth as possible. The zephyr-like swishing of her damask skirts and soft press of her silk slippers do nothing to overcome her cold muteness. The hallway seems much longer than it was before, with Mumsy refusing to throw him even the most paltry of pleasantries, and him unable to devise an adequately blithe frippery to cover up the awkward silence.
The door at the end of the hall looks just like all the others. Over the course of the too-many days he’s spent here, it’s as if its play at anonymity made it all the more alluring. From where he stands it seems to beat with unknown power – he can feel it through the floorboards, up through his shoes, where it gives the stolen jewelry new reason to rattle him up the length of his spine. Some nights he’d even dream of the room, of the blue light pattering like raindrops against his skin, like frost against his cheek, the glow filling and flooding the room like a sapphire storm to an audible pitch he couldn’t quite place upon waking.
“Well?” she says, turning to him. “Where’s our window washer? Be quick about it,” she says brusquely, on second thought handing him the key, and he with mouth agape watches her brush her way back to the kitchen and the rest of her appointment with Saticath.
Headfirst he dives.
WC: 533
He tries to look in the corner opposite the mirror; wonders, with guilty flush, if that isn’t exactly what a petty thief would do, and settles instead with appearing entirely disinterested. Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, he wishes suddenly that he had divided the jewelry he’d just stolen across different parts of his person. As it stands, if someone found one they’d find all and if he had thought to at the very least stick one earring down one sock and its counterpoint down the other – or, more creatively, the turned-back cuff of a sleeve – he could say he at least exerted the barest minimum of precautionary measures.
At her bedside cabinet, she seems to pause several ticks too long in consideration of the contents of the drawer. Had he too obviously misplaced anything in it? Even the overzealous opening and shutting of the drawer would have knocked things around. Worse still would be if he had left anything lying about that previously hadn’t been; but even worse, perhaps, if he misplaced things where they ought not to be in his harried attempts to clear out the scene.
The key ends up being in the left cabinet instead of the right.
“See?” he tries to say spritely as she bustles back to him, key in hand. “Would have made a right mess of your things trying to track it down myself!”
She doesn’t bother with a response, and he hastily presses himself against the opposite wall to give her as wide a berth as possible. The zephyr-like swishing of her damask skirts and soft press of her silk slippers do nothing to overcome her cold muteness. The hallway seems much longer than it was before, with Mumsy refusing to throw him even the most paltry of pleasantries, and him unable to devise an adequately blithe frippery to cover up the awkward silence.
The door at the end of the hall looks just like all the others. Over the course of the too-many days he’s spent here, it’s as if its play at anonymity made it all the more alluring. From where he stands it seems to beat with unknown power – he can feel it through the floorboards, up through his shoes, where it gives the stolen jewelry new reason to rattle him up the length of his spine. Some nights he’d even dream of the room, of the blue light pattering like raindrops against his skin, like frost against his cheek, the glow filling and flooding the room like a sapphire storm to an audible pitch he couldn’t quite place upon waking.
“Well?” she says, turning to him. “Where’s our window washer? Be quick about it,” she says brusquely, on second thought handing him the key, and he with mouth agape watches her brush her way back to the kitchen and the rest of her appointment with Saticath.
Headfirst he dives.
WC: 533
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