He looked up towards Themis, then back to his plate. Looking at her was like attempting to look at the sun. A sphere of guilt seemed to appear inside his ribcage and press outwards.
Of course, he thought, it was just his luck that this was the exact moment she caught him. After nearly three days without a meal and under the grip of a poison that took from the body whatever it deigned to, if one was not careful. He had not been careful. If it were a day or two later, he would have regained more of his physical constitution and would be better able to deflect her worry. He straightened his shoulders.
"Please," he said, nodding towards the free seat. There was really nothing else he could do. He discovered that his feeling was slow to respond to her presence, as it was slow to respond to everything. It was hard to tell how this would go and impossible to say what he wanted. Perhaps he would have preferred to be alone. He had avoided thinking about her since the night in Whitechapel on the 12th—at least he had tried to. It would mean facing his betrayal, and he was not ready to do that. It still felt like a dream he had not yet woken up from. "How have you been?" he asked and took another bite. That seemed kind of nonsensical, but the response was as much of an automatism as anything he did today. It was all simply not real.
Of course, he thought, it was just his luck that this was the exact moment she caught him. After nearly three days without a meal and under the grip of a poison that took from the body whatever it deigned to, if one was not careful. He had not been careful. If it were a day or two later, he would have regained more of his physical constitution and would be better able to deflect her worry. He straightened his shoulders.
"Please," he said, nodding towards the free seat. There was really nothing else he could do. He discovered that his feeling was slow to respond to her presence, as it was slow to respond to everything. It was hard to tell how this would go and impossible to say what he wanted. Perhaps he would have preferred to be alone. He had avoided thinking about her since the night in Whitechapel on the 12th—at least he had tried to. It would mean facing his betrayal, and he was not ready to do that. It still felt like a dream he had not yet woken up from. "How have you been?" he asked and took another bite. That seemed kind of nonsensical, but the response was as much of an automatism as anything he did today. It was all simply not real.
