Distraction
May. 31st, 2005 12:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
arsenicwaltzThe girl paces restlessly across the floor, skirts failing to rustle with the muggy heat of the room. The night outside sparkles and wavers with heat stored in cobbles and stone blocks during the hours of brightness and released grudgingly by the masonry in the dark hours. The girl knows this academically, but remembers that she has never seen the sun up over the City. A timber creaks beneath her foot and she winces, thinking that she should attend to the maintainance of her palace, but her thoughts travel onward without a care for the upkeep of her architecture. A niggling guilt remains behind though, which eats at her concentration and loops endlessly, dangerously towards chaos until she plunges her hands through a plate glass window, the glass melting and reforming itself to her will around her hands and torso. Her hands resting on the outer sill she takes deep, gulping breaths of the still stifling air, hoping to clear her head. But the City's lure of a thousand amusements only shatters her concentration further and it is only with the utmost care and by sheer force of will that she removes herself from the window and returns to her Ballroom. The skeletal dancers whirl on in the pressing heat and damp even as she dashes from the room.
Eddie finds her a few hours later perched upon a barrel in the vast catacombs of the Palace cellar, candle by her side, quill in one hand and her Book of Duties in the other. The air is cool and dank, dark and without the distracting sparkle of the burgeoning Summer to distract her here. She is scribbling furiously, letting no thing distract her save the redipping of her pen, and the shadow servant sees that there are but a half score of pages left in this volume of the Book. She is writing furiously, and doesn't look up when a tall glass of lemonade and a plate of gingersnaps appears by her side. It is as if she is waiting, the whole world is waiting, for that final page to be filled, for the Book to be closed and that penultimate volume finished.
She writes on into the night, a newly filched candelabra from the vast Dining Room by her side. They know to give her support, and not more worries in this last stretch of the Book.
Eddie finds her a few hours later perched upon a barrel in the vast catacombs of the Palace cellar, candle by her side, quill in one hand and her Book of Duties in the other. The air is cool and dank, dark and without the distracting sparkle of the burgeoning Summer to distract her here. She is scribbling furiously, letting no thing distract her save the redipping of her pen, and the shadow servant sees that there are but a half score of pages left in this volume of the Book. She is writing furiously, and doesn't look up when a tall glass of lemonade and a plate of gingersnaps appears by her side. It is as if she is waiting, the whole world is waiting, for that final page to be filled, for the Book to be closed and that penultimate volume finished.
She writes on into the night, a newly filched candelabra from the vast Dining Room by her side. They know to give her support, and not more worries in this last stretch of the Book.
