“Let me guess: Ancient History is still clamoring to borrow one of Archeo’s data people, and Thalergenic Sociology is still under the misguided impression that the Cohort will allow a study of post-battle adepts and cavaliers.” Usually, the Warden would offer these observations on inter-departmental politics with a certain amount of wryness, but his voice sounds hollow. “I’ll write everyone exceedingly polite notes and offer to meet with them personally. They’ll be thrilled.”
The truth is, whatever Camilla might think, Palamedes wouldn’t know what to do with niceness in this moment. Dulcie’s letter had been nice, and it had nearly destroyed him. Though he’s too lost in himself to completely comprehend it, Camilla Hect’s sensible bluntness is probably the medicine he needs, if only for its contrast to the devastating, careful sweetness of the letter on his desk.
Palamedes doesn’t flinch, exactly, when Cam touches his shoulder, but he shrinks away just slightly, and is relieved when the touch is gone. He thinks he might fall apart under such gentleness.
He doesn’t have to tell Cam Dulcinea’s answer. She knows, of course. Maybe she’s know what the answer would be since the beginning. Pal finds he can’t be upset about that.
“She says—“ his voice breaks, and he tries again, “She says she’s dying. She says I shouldn’t waste my youth on her, that it will only distract me from my work. She says,” and here he quotes from memory, a bitter note entering his voice, “ ‘Don’t listen to the poets, there’s nothing remotely attractive about a whey-faced girl coughing up blood.’ As though that mattered—"
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The truth is, whatever Camilla might think, Palamedes wouldn’t know what to do with niceness in this moment. Dulcie’s letter had been nice, and it had nearly destroyed him. Though he’s too lost in himself to completely comprehend it, Camilla Hect’s sensible bluntness is probably the medicine he needs, if only for its contrast to the devastating, careful sweetness of the letter on his desk.
Palamedes doesn’t flinch, exactly, when Cam touches his shoulder, but he shrinks away just slightly, and is relieved when the touch is gone. He thinks he might fall apart under such gentleness.
He doesn’t have to tell Cam Dulcinea’s answer. She knows, of course. Maybe she’s know what the answer would be since the beginning. Pal finds he can’t be upset about that.
“She says—“ his voice breaks, and he tries again, “She says she’s dying. She says I shouldn’t waste my youth on her, that it will only distract me from my work. She says,” and here he quotes from memory, a bitter note entering his voice, “ ‘Don’t listen to the poets, there’s nothing remotely attractive about a whey-faced girl coughing up blood.’ As though that mattered—"