… we do have Shadow, so the wolves are… are here already, so it’s just… Er.
“Huh!” Another brisk, unexpected laugh. Then he caught himself on another bemused snort. “A reasonable point,” he said dryly, awkwardly, clearing his throat. A bander pup. It was ludicrous; it was surreal. And yet there was no doubt that it was happening, all of it. And something about the way she had said it had just been so...
Morandi’s own fingers twitched on the table, returning to his lap. He sat very straightly; he had never smiled, but he frowned now, deeply.
Some part of him had pictured the two of them searching the house together again. She was looking up at him, or rather a little past him, and there was an apologetic edge in her voice. He felt a pang.
Well, he told himself. When her eyesight returned… And his had. It would have to, would it not?
He ignored the dread, pushing himself to his feet. “Naturally,” he said, abruptly and matter-of-factly.
He had gotten a few steps away from the table when her voice came again.
“Yes,” he replied. “Er. Shaving soap. It should do.” Not much, but – he put it out of his head, and in fact put everything out of his head, finding the chest of drawers near the beds that they had neglected the day before.
He searched mostly in silence, at first. He grunted occasionally as drawers came up empty, or with little more than scraps in them. Once, he found a tatter of cloth with a swirl of elaborate embroidery, in a design he had never seen; he studied it, running his fingers over the bumps and tassels, thinking of the shawl he had seen her in in the market. He was not sure why he thought of it, or what it meant. If they were to go to the bakery, then… The woman, the owner – not a human, surely?
A tiny prickling sensation scuttled down his back. He shook himself. Aurelie Steerpike, living among – humans.
He shook himself again, grunting. “I am afraid there is nothing but tatters,” he said. “We must do the best we can, I suppose.” He glanced over his shoulder; at this distance, she was a blurry shape, chin-length disheveled red hair and a light blue dress.
He started back toward the table, picking his way carefully; his eyes were still bleary. “I know a few spells to pass among people unnoticed, as long as you know an uncrowded route. And I spent enough time with the patrol sergeant to know that the Seventen here are quite lazy and disorderly; I should have liked further opportunity to discipline –”
He broke off, realizing what it was he said, and to whom, and the harsh cadence of his voice.
He had taken out the shaving soap, worn down from the past few days, and his spare uniform, too, throwing the jacket around his shoulders for now, at least, for propriety’s sake.
“Aurelie,” he said uncertainly, the name even stranger now on his tongue. “Here is – my hand. If you are ready.”
It was that which he offered this time, and not his arm; it was easier, he told himself, to help her to her feet with it, and not expect her to pull herself up on his arm.
He could not look at her face; he looked at her hand instead, small and sturdy and as scarred as a line cook's on the table. A stranger’s hand, utterly and completely, even if other parts of her were familiar. He felt a swell of curiosity and sadness all at once, and something else, something stranger, like homesickness.