"And if you didn't have to?" he asked.

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

Leila stopped in her tracks, fingers grasping more tightly at the fabric. Could she have possibly misheard him? What was he talking about? They were long past daydreaming about the lives they didn’t lead - however she felt, Leila had at least accepted the way the chips had fallen. She knew there were things she couldn't change. So what could he change for her?

“What do you mean?” She said warily, refusing to meet his eyes in case they betrayed her with a stupid flash of hope.

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The following 1 user Likes Leila Scott's post:1 user Likes Leila Scott's post
   Aldous Crouch

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He had not come here for this.

He had intended merely to make sure that it was truly her, that she hadn't died or fallen into prostitution in the years since their shared trauma—a trauma that, ultimately, he carried the guilt for, for she was his pupil, under his charge. Seeing her, hearing her, though, had tripped something within the wizard, something that, once free, shackled his better judgement up in a corner.

"If you ever decide that all of this—" he gestured with a sardonic smile "—is not enough for you, come to Fingersmith Alley, ask around for Westerman. I may be rusty, as instruction goes, but I still have knowledge left to share." The accident had taken a great many things, but it hadn't taken that.

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   Leila Scott

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

Her breath hitched in her throat as his suggestion came to light, an offer she had not thought to dream of, not even in the last moments of here and now, knowing he was still healing, only streets away. And this? She knew this was not enough - this would never be enough, it was hardly enough distraction to get through a single day - so she ought to have stopped him there to voice her agreement. Her gratitude. Her thanks.

“I’ll - think about it,” Leila said, haltingly, the words slightly hoarse. She felt herself nodding almost without realising it, but forced herself to push the hopeful feeling down, banishing it somewhere to the pit of her stomach. Mr. Belby’s offer would not change anything. It was not an escape. Not a solution. It would not fix what had happened. Perhaps it would only bring it back, those memories of the hospital. In any case, the hopeful feeling wouldn’t last, and then what?

Someone downstairs was calling for her. She flinched and closed her eyes, almost afraid that when she opened them again she would realise this encounter had been just a hallucination, just a daydream. Mr. Belby was still there when she opened her eyes, though this time she averted her gaze. “I should go,” she said, and dashed away, disoriented.

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