05-09-2020, 12:50 AM
Once she’d secured somewhere to stay she texted Nox, letting him know she was still okay and to inquire sweetly over whether he had managed to lose any more limbs. The next few days passed quickly. Aylin was placated by the idea of the strange trip culminating in something so pleasingly ordinary as a commission (Thalia didn’t mention the Church), and seemed to be coping okay with her own return to work at the Guardian. Thalia spoke to Koit too, though it was probably fair to say she spoke and he listened patiently.
The fear washed away, yesterday’s fading dream. Her nights were quiet, her sketches innocuous.
Today summer seemed to have finally found her wings, and Thalia had spent the morning drifting through the market stalls on the banks of the river. A floppy woven hat shaded her eyes, and she sat on a bench watching the water’s gentle lap, a punnet of sweet morello cherries balanced in her lap. People had been talking about the Visit (and it did have that capital sound to it), so it seemed the Pope really was coming on the misunderstanding of some artwork she had not in actual fact produced.
The how of that was a curious question she had made no attempt to dive into.
She hadn’t told Nox about the Pope part yet either, though she was sure he would believe her, which was just as well since she doubted the man in question would consent to the evidence of a selfie. And probably Nox would not be much impressed anyway. Her nose scrunched.
Actually, she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to wait for something so formal as a summons or if she was just supposed to announce herself. What did one wear to meet the Pope anyway? She was putting it off; she could feel it in scattered rise and swell of her thoughts, trickling diligently around all the reasons this made such little sense. A portrait, Ando had said, and since then Thalia had been especially careful not to find herself swayed by the nauseous temptation to look up his face. An ancient man, like the Father himself; that was what she imagined. And there was no one like in her drawings. So why was she still sitting on this bench?
It was still several more minutes before she carefully packed away the cherries in their brown paper bag and stood.
It’s just a commission.
The route she took was meandering, and intercepted by a polite phone call from a clergyman whose name promptly sieved right through her memory. They had welcomed Pope Patricius I that morning. He gushed a little, patently pleased with the honour. He sounded quite young. The church when she finally arrived looked different in rich daylight, and the intersection of its streets was busier. She delayed in the gardens outside before she finally skipped up the steps, pushing the hat off her head and pulling her hair free from the cord that let it hang down her back. Her boots echoed the same, and the same chill pricked her skin as the sunlight faded to something austere and cool.
The fear washed away, yesterday’s fading dream. Her nights were quiet, her sketches innocuous.
Today summer seemed to have finally found her wings, and Thalia had spent the morning drifting through the market stalls on the banks of the river. A floppy woven hat shaded her eyes, and she sat on a bench watching the water’s gentle lap, a punnet of sweet morello cherries balanced in her lap. People had been talking about the Visit (and it did have that capital sound to it), so it seemed the Pope really was coming on the misunderstanding of some artwork she had not in actual fact produced.
The how of that was a curious question she had made no attempt to dive into.
She hadn’t told Nox about the Pope part yet either, though she was sure he would believe her, which was just as well since she doubted the man in question would consent to the evidence of a selfie. And probably Nox would not be much impressed anyway. Her nose scrunched.
Actually, she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to wait for something so formal as a summons or if she was just supposed to announce herself. What did one wear to meet the Pope anyway? She was putting it off; she could feel it in scattered rise and swell of her thoughts, trickling diligently around all the reasons this made such little sense. A portrait, Ando had said, and since then Thalia had been especially careful not to find herself swayed by the nauseous temptation to look up his face. An ancient man, like the Father himself; that was what she imagined. And there was no one like in her drawings. So why was she still sitting on this bench?
It was still several more minutes before she carefully packed away the cherries in their brown paper bag and stood.
It’s just a commission.
The route she took was meandering, and intercepted by a polite phone call from a clergyman whose name promptly sieved right through her memory. They had welcomed Pope Patricius I that morning. He gushed a little, patently pleased with the honour. He sounded quite young. The church when she finally arrived looked different in rich daylight, and the intersection of its streets was busier. She delayed in the gardens outside before she finally skipped up the steps, pushing the hat off her head and pulling her hair free from the cord that let it hang down her back. Her boots echoed the same, and the same chill pricked her skin as the sunlight faded to something austere and cool.