Research, paper trails, records, overlooked details that no one bothered with, these were the sort of things that Genny excelled at. It was probably the entire reason Glenn had even bothered with her. She and the Gods knew, there was little talent beyond that. Except, perhaps, in baking pies.
But in this matter there were no details, no records, no more than a mention in the hundreds of volumes she’d scoured. One moment there was a hefty volume in her hand and the next it slammed into the wall several paces in front of her. Dust billowed and spread in a cloud around the site of impact, the heavy tome landing with a great thud on the Inquistory floor.
Alone the redhead sunk her head into her palms, frustration overwhelming as she curled over her desk in wee early hours preceding dawn. Sleep had all but been abandoned; dark circles, the lamplight cast shadows, had become permanent.
For several moments she sat, wallowing in failure. Every scrap had been meticulously analyzed and yet still she felt there was something, somewhere, surely. Best to just collapse here and leave finding Glenn to the champions of Myrken, the Calomels the Agnies.
It is in this moment, desperation upon her that she became aware of the warm hand on her shoulder. His voice but a soft breath of air whispered, in her ear. Abruptly she turns, sending papers in a shower from her desk. Met with her own flickering shadow on the wall opposite, her eyes frantically search the darkness. In the space of a breath she is on her feet and colored specks burn and dance at the edge of her vision, the world teeters and tips.
“Glenn?!”
There is nothing. He is not there. But the whisper in the back of her mind comes as she is forced to steady herself on the chair back.
‘If someone threatens you, fight back,’ the young mapmaker had said to her, the dagger he gave her was small, but beautiful and the remembered words echoed. He had been mad at the time, frustrated with her and the memory is still vivid. Upset that she hadn’t done something to protect herself, to fight, to have faith in herself.
Fingers idly run over the fabric that covers the sheath, it lies warm against her skin. In the face of adversity, at the end of one road, came determination to find another way. The Inquistory is left with a new goal in mind, the book and papers cleaned up to leave no evidence of her encounter.
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Dawn comes and goes, it is mid morning before she emerges and a carriage delivers a fresh and made up Genny to the home of Horace’s widow. Genny will step out into the sunlight and rap at the door; she is an incredible sight to behold. Every strand had been meticulously cared for, her neatly braided hair forming a burning orange crown. Only the wisps at the back of neck, unable to be tamed, suggested anything but perfect, orderly control. From head to toe she was clad in a dress more suited for a ball, in fact it had been her ball gown, for Descant’s doomed affair, years ago now. Laboriously embellished at it’s hem with green and gold embroidery, refitted and made to match current styles, Genny moves slowly. Great care is taken with every step as white was hardly the color for someone so prone to clumsy falls.