location: crew’s shipyard @beckettwalsh
Al hadn't gone far from camp. She was pretty sure that the wrath of the hells themselves would descend upon her if she had. But her eyes stung and her throat burned and she knew before she'd even fully turned away from Cian that she was going to cry. And gods be damned if she was going to let him see it.
So she'd stomped away to mourn her failed attempt in private. She dug her heels into the sand with a frown, her book of pressed flowers and scrawled recipes open in her lap. She hated the sand. Hated it! She hated the way it clung to her once-white dress, forever staining the hem with its filth. She hated picking the tiny grains from her hair. She hated every lifeless speck of it beneath her feet.
And she hated how little sound it made beneath the approaching feet behind her. She swiped furiously at her cheeks. It was a wasted effort, but it was a way to at least pretend to save face. She tossed a glance over her shoulder and let out a sound of annoyance as she turned back to stare at the endless sand in front of her. Had Cian sent along a babysitter? She bristled at the thought. Beckett was perhaps the last person, outside of Cian himself, she wanted to see her like this. Without another glance back, she asked, “What do you want?”