Interlude [h.s]

forty-two

Alouette tries her best to avoid Harry for the following four days. She doesn't do it enough for it to be noticeable, she just makes sure she has always something to do, somewhere to run to.

She needs distance. She desperately needs distance, because now there are only three days left and she can't even think when he's around her. She needs to put distance between them if she wants to complete her task without losing a part of her as well, but she also can't push him away.

She worked so hard to get to a point in which he'll trust her at least enough to believe she'd never do anything against him, and she can't risk losing her advantage. So she smiles at him when she brings him coffee and when they cross paths in the corridors, she even kisses his lips when he pulls her in some hidden corner before making up a reason to escape again. It hurts to lie to him, but she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she pulled him in closer and closer until the very last moment.

She doesn't know if he notices her gradually pulling away, and if he does, what he thinks of it.

But even though she tries to physically distance herself from Harry as much as possible without it being too obvious, she finds that it's nearly impossible to do so emotionally.

More often than not, she catches herself watching him through the sliver of light of his half-open door. She watches him pacing, opening drawers and flicking through folders, pouring drinks for himself and then staring at the golden-brown liquid in his crystal glass. She looks as the shadows the artificial light paints on his face get darker as each day fades away, at the halo of blues, pinks and purples the lights of Northfair draw around him. She watches as he taps on the surface of his desk—his desk—and when he stops everything he's doing just to stare out of the window.

Alouette can't figure him out, but she's long given up. Some people aren't meant to be understood. Sometimes all everyone else can do is observe them and give up on ever finding the meaning behind their actions. Alouette is convinced Harry is one of those people; he exists for himself only. How could she ever hope to understand someone as fickle yet calculating as him?

Harry has once told her his favourite colour is grey, but she thinks he's more like bright green. He sticks out in the Palace just like a tree would in the centre of Northfair. He's as rare as spring grass and as intimidating as the woods he took her to some days ago, and yet he's oddly reassuring. He's the first person someone looks at whenever they walk into a room. His presence is so distinct that she knows he's around even before seeing him, that mixture of nervousness and calmness she can never quite make out.

Maybe Harry knows he's green, she thinks. Maybe that's why he hates the colour so much.

She observes him when he walks around always wearing his perfectly ironed suits. His white dress shirts, his black ties and vests and jackets and high-waisted trousers, every day a copy of the one before. Alouette is certain the sun will rain fire down on earth before he goes out of his rooms wearing something different.

She observes his defined cheekbones and sharp jawline, his long dark lashes and the curve of his heart-shaped lips. The way the light hits the rings on his fingers and the way he brushes back bothersome loose curls when he looks down.

She can't stop looking at him. For four days, she pretends to be busy while all she does is look at him, think about him.

Does he think about that afternoon of some days ago too? Does it come back to his mind when he's lying still in the middle of the night, does it make him smile? Does he ever wonder what could've happened if Evie hadn't come knocking?

Does he feel in the same inexplicable way she does?

It's now half past one, and Alouette is staring at the alarm clock on her nightstand, lying on her bed under the coloured lights of the city right past her window. She pretends to be asleep so that—hopefully—no one will come knocking, but she's everything but.