Eleanor sits at the edge of the table, itching to lift her hand to Woodes’ face, but she’s tried that before, and seeing it pass through him was more painful than she’d realised and not an experience she cares to repeat any time soon. His eye bags are worse now, heavy and purple beneath his eyes; his stubble scruffier than she’s ever seen it– he’d always taken such care with his appearance. Not for vanity’s sake, but appearance– and she liked that he could tell the difference too.
And yet when he’d had her once-sister dragged into the room, he had barely bothered with appearances. A veneer that Madi easily saw through, but he had had no problem with putting forth his proposal bluntly, not bothering to veil his threat. Unable to do anything, Eleanor had sat in her corner, knitting– because in this shadow world, she could suddenly do it now– and it felt like a silent act of anger and accusation: look what you did to me, look what you did to me. The clacking of her needles had grown louder the longer their conversation dragged on, and at its end, which Eleanor could have told him about had she been there, Madi points out the truth, that he had been the one to kill her, and the needles had slipped past each other and out of her hands with a sound eerily similar to the slash of a knife.
A knife not unlike the one that had taken their child from her, a knife that had dealt the wound that ended her life.
Two emotions battle for prominence within her now as she sits in front of him: disbelieving rage that he would do that to her, and gut wrenching sorrow that she’s not really there to help him through this.
Sometimes she swears he can hear her, or sense her somehow– he keeps looking over into her corner. Knowing this cannot be true, she lets her hand hover over his, sighing his name quietly. “Woodes.”