Hatred

IX.

She hates how he makes her feel.

The professor is again in London, and the attorneys have flown home. Labyrinthia continues to grow, thriving as the seasons change in their endless circle. For most adults, there are now two people inhabiting a single body: the person they were, who they willingly left behind, and the person they've become. For many, the former is a mixed bag of memories both good and bad; the latter, a puzzle they are slowly solving.

"I think... I think I have always loved working with children," Ms. Primstone muses to the former Judge as they watch the little ones enjoy their new playground. The primary school has remained, though older students now attend a secondary school nearer to the garrison.

"I've always enjoyed carving things," Cutter says to Rouge, whistling happily as he files paperwork to join the carpenter's guild as a trade apprentice. "I guess you could say I was one of them—what're they called again? Starving artists?"

"You'll be starving if you don't sweep those shavings you left upstairs," Rouge advises him curtly, twirling her dagger between her first three fingers. "But if you're happy with being a tradesman, it's no skin off my nose. Maybe now this place will stop looking like it's about to fall in on itself."

"I think I've always liked machines," Barnham tells her one day, testing out the controls on a forklift. "Listen to the sound it makes!" She can't help but agree. Whenever he finds something new to tinker with—the boat, the crane, the island's sole lawnmower—he looks like a child on Christmas morning.

"I hear it," she calls back, raising her voice to be heard over the dull roar of the engine. Perhaps it isn't the safest idea to stand beside him on the power equipment, but it's far easier than screaming and waving at one another when trying to work. Any modifications they need to make to the reconstruction plans can be agreed upon in the moment, rather than waiting for him to turn off the machine and find her. She didn't find the same enjoyment in them that he did, but she had to admit it was more fun to ride above everyone's heads than it was to walk in the dusty construction sites.

But it was dangerous. The seats were only made for one person, meaning that she was left holding onto whatever handhold she could find on the frame. Whenever she inevitably stumbled, he was there to catch her with a sturdy grip on her arm, or around her waist. The first time their hands touched, without the barrier of gloves or armor, what a thrill had run through her! It'd had nothing to do with the near fall, but it frightened her far more than breaking her head on the cobbles ever would.

He still watched her, his eyes following her long after they parted ways at the crossroads each evening. Any animosity that might have been left from that awful night was long forgotten, or at least never spoken of. Nor did they ever mention that next morning, when her tears painted his cuirass in the pale dawn. Whatever emotions had passed between them that day had been enough.

Now it is merely a matter of learning how to live as herself: as Eve. It's such a relief to be herself, in public, for the first time in years. No longer do her emotions have to be kept a closely-guarded secret. When she is happy, she can be happy. The Great Witch and High Inquisitor Darklaw still exist, of course, but they are shadows that arise to protect her when she is angry, embarrassed, or frightened.

Before she knows it, she has amassed a small group of friends. When they were children, Espella was her best friend. Although she spent her life protecting Espella, a watchful older sister from the shadows, they are still veritable strangers. Part of the fun is relearning one another, finding with satisfaction that their tastes are still aligned. They are quickly growing close once more, though she cannot say that Espella is her best friend.

If anyone were to hold that position—for the moment, at least—it would be Barnham. He is the one who understands her in a way no one else can, having worked for so long as her fellow inquisitor. He continues to work at her side on the reconstruction project, and its rare that they do not spend at least part of the day together. It's he who can read between the lines, parsing her true feelings from the jumble of large words and lengthy explanations.

She watches him in turn, noticing how he bridges the gap between them. They are no longer superior and subordinate—they are equals. Friends. As he grows more comfortable with the idea, he moves from standing at a polite distance to crowding up against her side. He seems to think nothing of slinging a careless arm over her shoulder, or dragging her onto the machinery with one hand. He treats her in the same way he treats his friends at the tavern, smiles and laughter and a love language that's wholly physical. At times, his exuberant greetings remind her of the way Constantine bounces around her ankles.

While she's glad he's comfortable enough around her to be himself, at the same time there is a tension she doesn't quite understand. He sometimes holds on for a beat too long, or their faces come too close, or her fingers squeeze a little too tightly when he yanks her back onto the forklift for the fifth time that morning. Then they're caught in a space all of their own making; no one else seems to notice how heavy the air is, or how quickly they rush to separate. Their awkward laughter serves to dispel the tension, but it doesn't explain it.

She finds herself blushing at odd times, distracted by the broad length of his shoulders as he works. When he swings around in his seat to reverse, his hair tickles her forearm and it sends a tingling rush straight to her heart. At least she isn't the only one; more than once she's looked up just in time to see him turn in a less-than-subtle attempt to cover his face. It doesn't work—even if he does manage to hide his cheeks, nothing stops her from seeing how red his ears are.

Long ago, she said that she hated his smiles. But there is one special one he reserves just for her, and she can't help but find it charming. She still hates how he messes up his hair, but only because it reminds her of her own cowardice. She will never be bold enough to reach out and touch it. She's grown so used to his messy paperwork that the sight no longer bothers her.

Why had she ever disliked him so?

When she pauses to think about it, she remembers that he was forced upon her by the Storyteller. She hadn't liked the change; she still doesn't like it. Maybe it is the reconstruction, or maybe it's the temperament of the city itself, but there is a feeling of change that hangs over the island like a fog. It clings to everyone, even him, and the thought itself is terrifying. She does not want him to change, ever.

They were friends now. If something were to change... that might change, too. He wouldn't be her friend any longer. She would hate to lose him.