[ John Gaius stands with his back to the boardwalk and his gaze on the sea. She stepped back into the water hours ago; she's gone; he is left alone amid the roar of a surf-tormented shore, et cetera. He might like to kill something, or cry, or give up catastrophically. He might like to wade out himself, and never mind if it washes him up like pathetic flotsam. He stands on the brink.
Instead comes a voice that is not quite familiar, and he turns.
Everything pretty immediately stops making sense.
He sees her body; he sees her eyes; he sees the way she holds herself, which is not like the way anyone has ever held themself, bright and easy and open. Lyctoral masking cannot hide her from him, except— he doesn't— what?
The man she's asked for directions stares at her, then turns to look out at the sea as though it'll cough up answers, then turns back to stare at her again. There is something complicated happening in the scrunch of his brow, the worry lines around his eyes, like he is trying to work backwards through a puzzle. ]
ii.
Instead comes a voice that is not quite familiar, and he turns.
Everything pretty immediately stops making sense.
He sees her body; he sees her eyes; he sees the way she holds herself, which is not like the way anyone has ever held themself, bright and easy and open. Lyctoral masking cannot hide her from him, except— he doesn't— what?
The man she's asked for directions stares at her, then turns to look out at the sea as though it'll cough up answers, then turns back to stare at her again. There is something complicated happening in the scrunch of his brow, the worry lines around his eyes, like he is trying to work backwards through a puzzle. ]
Annabel?