Estelle first supposed that his dramatic reaction was due to the horror of her brutal strangulation, and the bruises from her murderer’s fingers that must have bloomed in ugly black and blue all over the creamy white skin of her neck, at least before she had lost all living colour – but she was forced to reassess this at the fact he had barely even looked before practically jumping back a mile, which made utterly no sense.
And he had asked, as if it weren’t obvious, so in addition to being poor and uneducated he must be either blind or witless or both, because she had Just. Explained. The. Whole. Situation. Instead of caring or taking this seriously, as he should, this – this – this boy had just averted his eyes as if she’d just unbuttoned her whole dress in front of him, thrown her chemise off over her head and her petticoats in the streets!
Which Estelle would most certainly never do, because she was a lady, but even if she had, it would not have been in front of the likes of him, she muttered to herself in her mind. And even if she had done that – even if she had been as good as a harlot in broad daylight – what right did he have to react like that? He ought to have been honoured or – something – not looking as though he were disgusted, like she had some terrible rash he might catch just from looking at.
(And it was not quite a contagious rash, but Estelle’s face had heated up considerably, a nasty flush spreading from her cheeks up to her ears and down to her neck where she had bared it. Which it probably oughtn’t be able to, considering that she was dead... it was strange that she could still feel sensations produced by severe mortification and nothing else, wasn’t it?)
Even though he had flinched, Estelle stubbornly didn’t button her top button back up, because that would just be proving him justified, which he was not. Instead, she just hardened her glare and hoped that might cow him into proper solemnness, as if she were a gorgon who could turn him to stone without need of a spell. “My cause of death,” Estelle got out finally, almost trembling with indignation. “The wounds inflicted by my murderer.”
She couldn’t understand how he couldn’t believe her now, when she offered him all the proof she had, but lest he didn’t – “Or perhaps you should check the scene to see if there is any evidence there. Or see if you can find him,” she demanded, gesturing back the way she had come from, though she suspected any murderer with half a brain cell more than this fellow would have fled by now. But maybe there was some clue left behind where she had died. “You are law enforcement, aren’t you?” Estelle added, narrowing her eyes as if she no longer quite believed it. (Dear Merlin; she had just been murdered and she was still having to do everything herself!)
And he had asked, as if it weren’t obvious, so in addition to being poor and uneducated he must be either blind or witless or both, because she had Just. Explained. The. Whole. Situation. Instead of caring or taking this seriously, as he should, this – this – this boy had just averted his eyes as if she’d just unbuttoned her whole dress in front of him, thrown her chemise off over her head and her petticoats in the streets!
Which Estelle would most certainly never do, because she was a lady, but even if she had, it would not have been in front of the likes of him, she muttered to herself in her mind. And even if she had done that – even if she had been as good as a harlot in broad daylight – what right did he have to react like that? He ought to have been honoured or – something – not looking as though he were disgusted, like she had some terrible rash he might catch just from looking at.
(And it was not quite a contagious rash, but Estelle’s face had heated up considerably, a nasty flush spreading from her cheeks up to her ears and down to her neck where she had bared it. Which it probably oughtn’t be able to, considering that she was dead... it was strange that she could still feel sensations produced by severe mortification and nothing else, wasn’t it?)
Even though he had flinched, Estelle stubbornly didn’t button her top button back up, because that would just be proving him justified, which he was not. Instead, she just hardened her glare and hoped that might cow him into proper solemnness, as if she were a gorgon who could turn him to stone without need of a spell. “My cause of death,” Estelle got out finally, almost trembling with indignation. “The wounds inflicted by my murderer.”
She couldn’t understand how he couldn’t believe her now, when she offered him all the proof she had, but lest he didn’t – “Or perhaps you should check the scene to see if there is any evidence there. Or see if you can find him,” she demanded, gesturing back the way she had come from, though she suspected any murderer with half a brain cell more than this fellow would have fled by now. But maybe there was some clue left behind where she had died. “You are law enforcement, aren’t you?” Estelle added, narrowing her eyes as if she no longer quite believed it. (Dear Merlin; she had just been murdered and she was still having to do everything herself!)
