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[rathercommon]

crystal | letter | cease and desist notices slipped under her door | action

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[rathercommon]

"You were here before he was."

She finds herself desperately in need of something to do with her hands. In a stroke of luck, she hasn't dusted her shelves or table or anything in nearly a week; there's a very faint layer of grime upon them. So she goes for a rag, and starts setting to, flicking the cloth to dislodge what's there.

"How do you explain that, then?"

[reshapes]

He squints.

Had he been? He'd never actually asked Nathaniel when he'd come tumbling through his own rift. It had seemed insensible to quiz him on it - like suggesting it was possible the world just spin the other direction for fun. Nathaniel had been present, and so he had stopped asking questions about the nature and timing of his being here. Simple as.

"Some kind of...mistiming as we traveled through the Fade would be my-- Say now, there's a warm thought. The same could be true in reverse."

[rathercommon]

She swipes harder at the dust. Nausea churns higher in her.

"What, you want to die, then?"

[reshapes]

He snorts. It's a strange thing for a large cat to do, and a very normal one for a spirit.

"Die. Well that's a little dramatic, isn't it? I know object permanence isn't a human's strong suit, but still."

[rathercommon]

"That's what it is." Her voice is quiet and flat. "When Rifters disappear. It's not like when you kill a magician and the demon gets un-summoned. There's no coming back from it. When you go, there's nothing more. No more consciousness, no more life, nothing. It's dying."

She scrubs at an oily smudge hard. Her fingernail catches on the wood and jams.

"If Mandrake's gone, he's dead."

[reshapes]

One prefers to having a clock ticking in these situations. It makes it easy to tell how long the awkward pauses stretch for. In its stead, the lion on the bed twitches the tuft of its tail back and forth, back and forth.

"Nonsense. Who put that idea in your head?"

[rathercommon]

"Literally every other Rifter?" She ought to stop. What's the point of Bartimaeus knowing about this? Wouldn't it be better if he just assumed that he'd be going home? All she's going to do is make him miserable. Or hostile, and less prone to trusting her still.

So she shakes her head. "Anyway. What does it even matter to you, what happened to him?"

[reshapes]

Well, one these avenues of conversation has a point to it and the other is potentially theoretical nonsense spouted by a series of people who may or may not have any clue as to what they're going on about. That makes no sense, he might say. If a Rifter disappearing is equivalent to death, how would they even know about it to say so?

So. Sticking firmly with the reasonable, the panting lioness draws itself up and puts on its best look of cool regard.

"Because I'm tired, I would prefer to be dismissed properly, and we had a deal. You may be perfectly happy to stay here for as long as they'll have you, but some of us need to get going sooner rather than later."

[rathercommon]

She shakes her head tautly. "Dismissed properly?" she asks in return. "What is it you think Mandrake's going to do? He was as clueless as the rest of us, here. More clueless, even." A little bubble of odd, incongruous anger. She ignores it. "You think he would be able to send you home? When he was here for months and couldn't even send himself home? Please. If he made a deal with you, then he was lying to you. Which oughtn't be a surprise, considering the source."

[reshapes]

Here, at last, something close to bristling emerges in the spirit's crisp tones. "What I expect him to do" --whether he has to go find himself a rift and climb into the Fade and hunt the boy's drifting filaments down to accomplish it-- "is try. Because I can't stay here."

[rathercommon]

"Well, he didn't try, did he." She turns her back on Bartimaeus, her shoulders hunched as she wipes down the handles of her drawers. "Or if he did try, he failed. He's a liar or didn't know what he was about. Big bloody surprise."

[reshapes]

Well what does she expect? For him to argue with her? As far as he's concerned, she can call Mandrake whatever nasty names she cares to. It doesn't make a lick of difference to--

"Hold on. Are you upset?"

[rathercommon]

She tenses, hand gripping the rag. She doesn't turn around, but just says, sharply, "What a stupid question. Why would I be upset?"

[reshapes]

"I really haven't the slightest idea. But if you spend any longer polishing that drawer knob, it will start to seem vulgar."

[rathercommon]

That makes her turn around, a flash of offended anger in her eyes. Unfortunately, as soon as her righteousness fades, it leaves her facing him, and - and what? What is there to say? How can she convince him she doesn't care? Because she doesn't. It's just some existential fear for herself that gives her...gives her that churning, miserable feeling.

"Why do you care if I care, anyway?" she asks (rather lamely). "You hate me and you hate him. So what does it matter?"

[reshapes]

The lioness' dark eyes study her there from across the narrow room. Flick, flick, flick goes its tail.

"Ah," he says. "Never mind. I've figured it out."

[rathercommon]

But Kitty's frown just deepens. "Figured what out?"

[reshapes]

"Why you're upset."

[rathercommon]

"Tell me, then."

[reshapes]

So he does.

"Because you thin the same thing will happen to you and that no one at all will be bothered about it when it does, and that nothing you did here will make any difference. It will be as if you were never here at all. Because it's funny, isn't it? They had a funeral for you when they thought you'd karked it out there in the world, but it's not like anyone's doing any stuffy old ceremony for any Rifters that melt their way on back into the Fade. No, the reason you're upset by the idea that Mandrake might be gone - really gone - is for the same reason I am. You're worried about what the means for you."

[rathercommon]

The look that she shoots Bartimaeus is - well - Let's just say that it isn't the wounded, vulnerable look of a person who's just had their soul revealed to them. Instead, it's tinged with something that might be classified as exasperation.

"Yeah," she says, "obviously. Everyone feels that way whenever anyone dies. Death makes people scared of dying. That's not exactly an original thought."

[reshapes]

Well, it's not as if he was expecting crocodile tears. But not even a glimmer of remorse--?

Fair enough. All the better, even. Crying is so unpleasantly damp looking, and it's not as if there's any reason to convince anyone to reflect fondly on the likes of John Mandrake, one of Britain's foremost ministers of the government. No, this is all perfectly fine.

"Good, good. I'm so glad we're on the same page. While we're at it - you haven't got a sharp knife on you have you? Bronze or copper would be my personal preference."

[rathercommon]

Kitty narrows her eyes suspiciously. "What do you want a knife for?"

[reshapes]

Sweetly, demurely, positively batting his long feline eyelashes: "For cutting, of course. Why, what do you use one for?"

And then he drops that because, honestly, who has the patience to play twenty questions with Kitty Jones of all people? The lioness turns one of its heavy forepaws, dark glints of nearly talon like claws sparkling in the sickly green glow of the rift shard buried there like especially morbid precious stones at the end of each tufted toe.

"If this is the only thing keeping me here, then I think I can afford to get rid of it."

[rathercommon]

Now he gets the shock, and dismay, and horror. She steps back, clamping a hand against the sheath at her side, as though the knife within it were at risk of jumping free to hack at him.

"Stop that," she says unsteadily. "That's not funny."