“I’ll help you,” Tyb said, when she mentioned washing up – firmly, so that she wouldn’t protest if he fretted over her. He could picture her helping strangers at the library, could piece it together from her bloodstained clothes and the ash on them; while she pulled at her hairpins, he ducked away to gather the discarded layers up and bundle them out of the room to be put in the washing basket. (He wasn’t ordinarily so efficient when it came to tidying anything – but the fewer reminders in the room, the better.)
“I’m fine now,” he added, when she asked about him, because she was finally home – he was tired, but still restless with energy, with wanting to be useful now. “I can listen for Maisie.” He supposed neither of them need go to work tomorrow. Her, because the library would be in no fit state of repair for it; him, because his job was entirely useless for disasters like these.
“I’m fine now,” he added, when she asked about him, because she was finally home – he was tired, but still restless with energy, with wanting to be useful now. “I can listen for Maisie.” He supposed neither of them need go to work tomorrow. Her, because the library would be in no fit state of repair for it; him, because his job was entirely useless for disasters like these.
