Well.
His hunch - fear - hadn't been wrong, and there was utterly no mistaking the meaning of her hand placement. A deafening gesture if ever there had been one.
"I'm sorry," he murmured again in spite of himself, entirely uselessly, letting out a long breath in commiseration and sinking down into a chair across from her. He felt awful for her, and horrendously guilty (never mind that he'd had nothing to do with it, and never mind that, unlike Zelda - who was his baby sister, who had come to him, who he felt responsible for, almost as another parent - this was none of his business at all). Still, after last time still etched readily in his mind, Ari was at least past all judgement, found himself firmly rooted in the camp of sympathy.
He didn't even know which instance was worse, on the whole: Zelda had broken his heart a little - he had never seen his sister quite so small or so young or so lost - and Miss Tweedy must be a little less naive, must know a bit more, as a mediwitch. She had always seemed sensible and practical and down-to-earth, and had clearly managed to diagnose herself. But also, on the other hand, she... didn't have family to help her through, who would stand by her unconditionally. Didn't have anyone, really.
"But what are you going to do -?" Ari began again, after a long pause, an awkward stretch of thinking it over, his brow firmly creased. "Move away?" It made sense on one front, a timely escape, a way to avoid the prying eyes and the whispers and judgements - perhaps she could give the child up, and return as though nothing had happened. But what about her work? How would she support herself for so long, if she fled her job at the hospital with no warning? She would need help, surely -
But she also must know enough, had contemplated long enough, to have figured out the alternatives. He'd had to prepare for that eventuality last time - had at least wrapped his mind around the practical risks and the potential methods, if not come to terms with it - but Miss Tweedy would know the perils better than Zelda. She may have seen them firsthand, in women she'd helped to the hospital. Oh, Merlin.
He didn't, honestly, know why he was asking her at all; she had already confessed to not knowing what to do. But maybe there was something she'd missed. Maybe there was some way to help.
His hunch - fear - hadn't been wrong, and there was utterly no mistaking the meaning of her hand placement. A deafening gesture if ever there had been one.
"I'm sorry," he murmured again in spite of himself, entirely uselessly, letting out a long breath in commiseration and sinking down into a chair across from her. He felt awful for her, and horrendously guilty (never mind that he'd had nothing to do with it, and never mind that, unlike Zelda - who was his baby sister, who had come to him, who he felt responsible for, almost as another parent - this was none of his business at all). Still, after last time still etched readily in his mind, Ari was at least past all judgement, found himself firmly rooted in the camp of sympathy.
He didn't even know which instance was worse, on the whole: Zelda had broken his heart a little - he had never seen his sister quite so small or so young or so lost - and Miss Tweedy must be a little less naive, must know a bit more, as a mediwitch. She had always seemed sensible and practical and down-to-earth, and had clearly managed to diagnose herself. But also, on the other hand, she... didn't have family to help her through, who would stand by her unconditionally. Didn't have anyone, really.
"But what are you going to do -?" Ari began again, after a long pause, an awkward stretch of thinking it over, his brow firmly creased. "Move away?" It made sense on one front, a timely escape, a way to avoid the prying eyes and the whispers and judgements - perhaps she could give the child up, and return as though nothing had happened. But what about her work? How would she support herself for so long, if she fled her job at the hospital with no warning? She would need help, surely -
But she also must know enough, had contemplated long enough, to have figured out the alternatives. He'd had to prepare for that eventuality last time - had at least wrapped his mind around the practical risks and the potential methods, if not come to terms with it - but Miss Tweedy would know the perils better than Zelda. She may have seen them firsthand, in women she'd helped to the hospital. Oh, Merlin.
He didn't, honestly, know why he was asking her at all; she had already confessed to not knowing what to do. But maybe there was something she'd missed. Maybe there was some way to help.
