[He reminds her strangely of someone else just then, though she can't quite put her finger on who it might be. Maybe he seems like a magician she had known only in passing at Somerset, or maybe she is thinking of her cousin Albert and how uneasy he'd been to see her turned loose at the mercy of a strange institution. Or maybe it is simply some sympathy pain, or a sharp flare of anxiety that looking at him inspires. How much different things will soon be? And how comfortable she has been even in this strange place at the margin of a very great war, and how much of that will soon be gone forever if even Messere Pizzicagnolo (who Myr himself had said was some breed of Loyalist) is so concerned?
Whatever the reason, a terrible homesickness strikes her. She holds it there for a moment high in her chest, then expells it forcefully with one great exhale.
All right. It's fine. Let's think of something brighter, shall we?]
And yet here you are, doing a perfectly fine job of it. Do you not enjoy any part of the work?
no subject
Whatever the reason, a terrible homesickness strikes her. She holds it there for a moment high in her chest, then expells it forcefully with one great exhale.
All right. It's fine. Let's think of something brighter, shall we?]
And yet here you are, doing a perfectly fine job of it. Do you not enjoy any part of the work?