But the question draws his gaze up to her face anyway. It does not still the sweep of his thumb. It does not shift his expression, change where it has cracked open in the course of their discussion. The quiet unspools between them, punctuated by the thunk and crack of storefronts opening, shutters being pushed outwards high above them, the cawing of gulls in the harbor.
"Aye, that was part of it," Ellis ventures, frown deepening as he feels his way through to this answer. Abbreviated because the day is very new; it is too early to invite this part of his history onto the street alongside them.
Yes, part of it was that Shanae was gone. But so was everyone else, even the person he was then, who danced with anyone who reached for him.
"But we should speak on something else now."
There is no obligation for Wysteria to tread along this conversational topic with him.
Her hand turns gently, thumb and forefinger setting at either side of his wrist. But she hasn't looked away from his face before this moment and so there's little reason to do so now just because he is looking back at her and the street is peeling itself out of its bedclothes.
As much as Ellis would like to pretend it is a kindness to her, he knows better. Wysteria has more than dispelled the idea that she has no capacity for the worst of his life.
But even so, Ellis balks at inviting it too close to them. The light pressure of her fingers at his wrist is such a good thing, made all the more precious for the awareness of what is being closed off to him, what has been excised without him realizing the possibility to brace against it.
"Why don't you want any of this?" she'd asked once, the kind of question that chimed against Vance's Stop playing dead. Is this a moment, a thing he should express some specific objection? Dig his heels in, express some acknowledgement of a thing lost? Would it be fair to her if he did? If he made this harder for her?
Her study of him is very keen. It's as sharp as a pen point, as fixed as the press of her fingers is patient. Wysteria spends a great deal of her day unpicking strange puzzles, and unpicking Ellis isn't so different a prospect. And so there is an urge to stand here in the shade of the wall and to do it—to poke and prod at him, and to turn him this and that until she has made sense of all the things she can see and draw safe conclusions regarding what she can't.
It's a mercy that, after the briefest hesitation, she concedes:
"Well, I suppose that's fine then. A very temporary reprieve—that would be acceptable," she says. And then, lest anyone become too delicate she adds, "But only because you've described it as a kindness to you. You should know I wouldn't allow anyone else to get away with such nonsense, Mister Ellis."
With a prompt squeeze of his wrist, Wysteria turns her hand in his and frees herself. It's a absentminded gesture so she might brush some nonexistent dirt from her skirt and adjust the lay of the chains hanging from her belt with a soft melodic jangle of metal. She clears her throat once in the process, and then just as briskly crooks her arm once more in offer to him.
An offer easily accepted, reclaiming the link of their arms. They draw back together, falling into step as they join the scattering of travelers winding their way towards the docks.
"Aye," Ellis agrees, leaving off any more specific gratitude than the brief pressure of his fingers at the bend of her elbow. "And then to your project."
Someday, that incisive study will render him transparent to her, whatever choices he makes. Ellis can consider the inevitability of that as the ferry bears them across the water to the Gallows, where Ruadh will no doubt meet them. They will part, so she might go to her work, until she calls him back again.
And some days later, a new chain will appear on the table of the Hightown house. Longer. Better suited, with a simple clasp and length enough to slip over her head without effort, just as needed.
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no subject
This is not a thing he can say to her.
But the question draws his gaze up to her face anyway. It does not still the sweep of his thumb. It does not shift his expression, change where it has cracked open in the course of their discussion. The quiet unspools between them, punctuated by the thunk and crack of storefronts opening, shutters being pushed outwards high above them, the cawing of gulls in the harbor.
"Aye, that was part of it," Ellis ventures, frown deepening as he feels his way through to this answer. Abbreviated because the day is very new; it is too early to invite this part of his history onto the street alongside them.
Yes, part of it was that Shanae was gone. But so was everyone else, even the person he was then, who danced with anyone who reached for him.
"But we should speak on something else now."
There is no obligation for Wysteria to tread along this conversational topic with him.
no subject
"Is that a request, or a courtesy? I can't tell."
He's tired. She knows that.
no subject
As much as Ellis would like to pretend it is a kindness to her, he knows better. Wysteria has more than dispelled the idea that she has no capacity for the worst of his life.
But even so, Ellis balks at inviting it too close to them. The light pressure of her fingers at his wrist is such a good thing, made all the more precious for the awareness of what is being closed off to him, what has been excised without him realizing the possibility to brace against it.
"Why don't you want any of this?" she'd asked once, the kind of question that chimed against Vance's Stop playing dead. Is this a moment, a thing he should express some specific objection? Dig his heels in, express some acknowledgement of a thing lost? Would it be fair to her if he did? If he made this harder for her?
His expression is too—
"Grant me a reprieve, at least until I've slept."
no subject
It's a mercy that, after the briefest hesitation, she concedes:
"Well, I suppose that's fine then. A very temporary reprieve—that would be acceptable," she says. And then, lest anyone become too delicate she adds, "But only because you've described it as a kindness to you. You should know I wouldn't allow anyone else to get away with such nonsense, Mister Ellis."
With a prompt squeeze of his wrist, Wysteria turns her hand in his and frees herself. It's a absentminded gesture so she might brush some nonexistent dirt from her skirt and adjust the lay of the chains hanging from her belt with a soft melodic jangle of metal. She clears her throat once in the process, and then just as briskly crooks her arm once more in offer to him.
"Then let us deliver you to bed, sir."
slaps down bow
"Aye," Ellis agrees, leaving off any more specific gratitude than the brief pressure of his fingers at the bend of her elbow. "And then to your project."
Someday, that incisive study will render him transparent to her, whatever choices he makes. Ellis can consider the inevitability of that as the ferry bears them across the water to the Gallows, where Ruadh will no doubt meet them. They will part, so she might go to her work, until she calls him back again.
And some days later, a new chain will appear on the table of the Hightown house. Longer. Better suited, with a simple clasp and length enough to slip over her head without effort, just as needed.