Seraphina sank down to the floor, and if his hands had not both been clamped around the edge of the desk (– they had been frozen there some time, as if he were caught between temptations to upturn the table or bash his head in on it –), Philip might have been able to crouch down and console her.
Console was maybe not the word. He didn’t know what the feeling was: nor did she. Because something had been wrong with him. Both of them.
He opened his mouth, felt a stabbing ache in his head, shut it again, tried to remember. “What’s,” he began, and his mouth felt numb, tongue heavy, like he was coming down off some high and his body was seizing up and leaden from it – he exhaled deeply and snapped out of it again. “What’s the last thing you remember? Really remember? Something you felt?”
The first feeling for him, before the misery and hopeless grief had flooded in, had been a fizz of anger, some flash of old resentment for Robert, of all people. Robin had – ruined something for him. Something big.
Console was maybe not the word. He didn’t know what the feeling was: nor did she. Because something had been wrong with him. Both of them.
He opened his mouth, felt a stabbing ache in his head, shut it again, tried to remember. “What’s,” he began, and his mouth felt numb, tongue heavy, like he was coming down off some high and his body was seizing up and leaden from it – he exhaled deeply and snapped out of it again. “What’s the last thing you remember? Really remember? Something you felt?”
The first feeling for him, before the misery and hopeless grief had flooded in, had been a fizz of anger, some flash of old resentment for Robert, of all people. Robin had – ruined something for him. Something big.
