Hatred

XI.

She hates him for changing, though change is inevitable.

The reconstruction effort is over; the city is beautiful and brand new, a staggering mix of modern convenience and old world charm. The Shade hamlet is a proper neighborhood just beyond the city walls, catering to those who wish to live away from the hustle and bustle of town life. The Courthouse is now a theatre, the Archives a proper library, the garrison a hub for civil service.

People, too, have changed. Jean Greyerl studies correspondence courses, working hard to earn a proper PhD in medicine. Espella pours over brochures for universities in her spare time, following in her parents' footsteps with a business degree. Barnham remained at the bakery following her birthday, taking on the duties of a proper apprenticeship under Mrs. Eclaire's tutelage.

A baker has no need to share an office that once belonged to inquisitors.

She watches the knights struggle to pull his battered desk from the room, the mountains of paper missing from its scuffed surface, and is unable to understand the thick lump in her throat. Wasn't this what she wanted? It was certainly what was best for everyone. Now that reconstruction was over, Barnham divided his time equally between the garrison and the bakery. He had no need for the space.

She, on the other hand, had taken on extra work with Labrelum in an effort to keep herself busy and stave off boredom. With his things gone there would be room to add more filing cabinets, a PC teleconference system, shelves for books and folders. All that extra space, just waiting to be utilized in an effort to create her ideal remote office setup.

Now that it was happening, she wasn't sure that she wanted it to. Watching his things go out the door seems so... final. The stand for his cloak is missing, and she remembers how he used to throw the heavy fabric across the desk after a Parade. Constantine carries out his own chew toy, and she thinks about the first day she saw him, and the laughter that followed. The dumbbells are hoisted onto the wiry shoulders of his squire, and her heart sinks lower when she realizes she'll never watch him pump iron at his desk again.

"You'll be wanting this back?" Barnham yanks the corkboard from the wall. It's still covered in things that are no longer needed: old memos from the witch trials, the portrait of him and Constantine, an old scribble on the back of an empty report that he made to spite her.

"No. Take it to the bakery with you." It was his board now, in her mind. It would never be hers again. "I don't need it. Everything's digital now, anyway." He holds it in both hands, head tilted questioningly as he hears the sorrow in her voice. She clears her throat quickly, reaching down to yank the ugly drawing off the lower edge. "But don't take this!" she jokes halfheartedly, folding the parchment in half.

"I can always draw another," he offers with a sly grin. "If you were to anger me again, that is."

"And I'll shout just as loudly as I did back then."

"I'll allow it, so long as you stab the paper instead of me." She remembers, then, that she had been the one to drive the dagger in so deeply. Had he never removed it? Suddenly she feels confused and lonely, memories of her office—their office—pouring over her all at once. She manages a hoarse chuckle and shrugs, folding the parchment again and tucking the square into her pocket.

"Do you need me to help move anything?" Looking around, she sees that his half of the room is entirely empty. It looks too big now, and she can't remember why she'd ever thought it small.

"No, I—I'll do it later." He nods, smiling her special, crooked smile, and she recalls thinking once that she would have rather worked with anyone else, so long as it wasn't him. It's much the opposite now. He is the one she'd choose over any other, even Espella. She doesn't want him to leave. "You'll visit, from time to time?" It sounds embarrassingly hopeful.

"Of course. You'd work yourself into an early grave if I didn't." He tucks the corkboard beneath his arm so that it will fit through the door. "I'll leave you to get settled. Text me if you need help." She waits until he is on the stairs before shutting the door quietly. He never closed the door quietly, always with a loud bang that rattled the hinges. A shuddering, muffled sound from the foyer only proves her thoughts as the Courthouse door swings shut behind him.

She walks slowly to her desk, looking around at the empty expanse of bright, freshly mopped flagstone. Opening up the uppermost drawer, she unfolds the caricature and tapes it to the bottom as though it were a piece of lining. The scribble is truly hideous: her eyes are mismatched, her teeth jagged points, her hair accessories jutting from her lopsided skull like devil's horns. It looks more like a child's rendition of a monster than a grown man's drawing.

'Tis what you resemble! The memory echoes in the empty room. A smile rises, unbidden, to her lips. That had been quite the anger-fueled day. Sighing, she looks around the half-furnished office once more before letting her forehead slump to the desk. She hates him, in a way, for making the decision to leave.

Never has a room felt quite so cold.