Evelyn has never been a particularly patient woman, though she might better prepare herself for the functionality of "going to the mattresses" if she knew anything at all. A whisper, a glimmer, something brief and even fleeting that might tell her where or how Rafe is, but the pressing silence crushes inward steadily, leaving somnolent quiet in its wake.
After the first week the house was assigned a security detail, a steady stream of nonstop visitors and well-wishers with handguns stuffed into their waistcoats and jacket pockets, complacent conversation murmured in Italian. Rarely to her, so much as around her. Even the three boys who rotated shifts during the daytime and came over for meals would treat her with an enforced distance.
Many of them still don't trust her.
The second week passed without event, so Evelyn worked while a small guard followed her through her own home, to the archives, to the library, to the museum. They rarely spoke and when they did, it was to tell each other off-colour jokes. As though she hasn't been speaking Italian to them for months. There is tea, there is monotony, and there is no news.
They are well into the third week when one of the young men informs her that security is expanding, that distant watchers will be required to guide, person to person, dogging her steps. She accepts the news with grace, wrapped up tight in her nightclothes and kimono. From the second story window she sees the messenger skip out across the walk, almost running into the bumper of a dark work vehicle that's just pulled up. The lanky frame stepping out of the driver side is unmistakable - having watched her countryman take on various jobs in the family it almost comes as a relief that he has been assigned guard duty, if only because their conversation tends to come so easily.]
no subject
Evelyn has never been a particularly patient woman, though she might better prepare herself for the functionality of "going to the mattresses" if she knew anything at all. A whisper, a glimmer, something brief and even fleeting that might tell her where or how Rafe is, but the pressing silence crushes inward steadily, leaving somnolent quiet in its wake.
After the first week the house was assigned a security detail, a steady stream of nonstop visitors and well-wishers with handguns stuffed into their waistcoats and jacket pockets, complacent conversation murmured in Italian. Rarely to her, so much as around her. Even the three boys who rotated shifts during the daytime and came over for meals would treat her with an enforced distance.
Many of them still don't trust her.
The second week passed without event, so Evelyn worked while a small guard followed her through her own home, to the archives, to the library, to the museum. They rarely spoke and when they did, it was to tell each other off-colour jokes. As though she hasn't been speaking Italian to them for months. There is tea, there is monotony, and there is no news.
They are well into the third week when one of the young men informs her that security is expanding, that distant watchers will be required to guide, person to person, dogging her steps. She accepts the news with grace, wrapped up tight in her nightclothes and kimono. From the second story window she sees the messenger skip out across the walk, almost running into the bumper of a dark work vehicle that's just pulled up. The lanky frame stepping out of the driver side is unmistakable - having watched her countryman take on various jobs in the family it almost comes as a relief that he has been assigned guard duty, if only because their conversation tends to come so easily.]
I'll be damned.