Evelyn sleeps like the dead, which would be an appropriate metaphor if she wasn't currently, actually deceased.
A childhood of unreasonable comfort instilled a sort of security in being alone, in sleeping without fear, in being so vulnerable. As a girl she had the occasional night terror, nothing too serious, rote fears of dolls with their wide, gaping eye staring into the void, worried about crocodiles in spite of the fact that they only existed at the London Zoo. For a long time her world was small, and warm, and soft.
It feels much the same now in the library, but she does not see it as such. It is an expansive hypostyle hall, heavy lintels resting on acanthus capitals, ancient stories writ in the stone. It is the Egypt she loves and remembers - remembers in another life, but possessing a familiarity that sings to her sweet, and low. Eyes half-lidded, her fingertips trip over the spines of her books and touch only cool stone.
Hemingway. Shelley. Camus. Byron. Dumas. A successful harvest, the fruits of the Nile plucked free in nets, thropping about on the shore.
Her unconscious feet take her to the bay window in her work area, through the west wing. There the moon drips in through the panes, stretching long shadows behind her and it is another night elsewhere, soft music in the distance.
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A childhood of unreasonable comfort instilled a sort of security in being alone, in sleeping without fear, in being so vulnerable. As a girl she had the occasional night terror, nothing too serious, rote fears of dolls with their wide, gaping eye staring into the void, worried about crocodiles in spite of the fact that they only existed at the London Zoo. For a long time her world was small, and warm, and soft.
It feels much the same now in the library, but she does not see it as such. It is an expansive hypostyle hall, heavy lintels resting on acanthus capitals, ancient stories writ in the stone. It is the Egypt she loves and remembers - remembers in another life, but possessing a familiarity that sings to her sweet, and low. Eyes half-lidded, her fingertips trip over the spines of her books and touch only cool stone.
A successful harvest, the fruits of the Nile plucked free in nets, thropping about on the shore.
Her unconscious feet take her to the bay window in her work area, through the west wing. There the moon drips in through the panes, stretching long shadows behind her and it is another night elsewhere, soft music in the distance.
Something like home.