He’s just as important to me. Isn’t he? I led him, he led me, we are comfortable. He reminds me of some things other people have done. Is that why I can’t do this?
A dark, ornately carved, torso-sized wooden box sat to her right, perched precariously on the stone ledge overlooking the park. In her lap was a much smaller, flatter box; it’s similar, but its designs are thicker, less detailed.
Dampened linen scraps, some colored already, were pasted to the top of the larger box. Staring ahead for too long, Emerly was yanked from her thoughts by a scrap that’d dried and achieved liftoff. Part of her hand had been steeping in the starchy concoction in her smaller box. The single cloth inside had stiffened, but her hand hadn’t - thanks to acute reflexes she snatched the wayward scrap before it could float out of reach.
Immediately she cursed it and crushed it, then cursed the wind, the city, and herself. She let the ruined piece fall from her hand. The breeze carried it for a half second longer, then let it plop soundlessly to the stone below.
Glancing at her pruny, tingling fingers brought her thoughts swiftly and wholly to a new realm. She saw the small babbling crowd ascend the steps and pay her no mind, but she wondered how many of her dead friends could still be contacted.
She felt like falling, just tipping over and cracking something on the fountain below so some stranger could rush to her aid. She swayed and imagined the pain, but all she accomplished was snapping the small box shut. She would try making a different pattern on this scrap.
Deciding that brought her to another realm of thought. She felt conditioned. She felt unnatural. She would try again instead of condemning the craft; after all, Jago appreciated it.
He would too, but not if I don’t put everything I have into it. He’s just as important to me.
Her posture straightened. The sound of approaching hooves brought her some serenity.
