An hour following her conversation with Ariane and Catch, the seamstress sought out an unlikely associate. But new realizations necessitated an approach more pragmatic than her usual urges often dictated. There was a weight in her guts, a sickness like betrayal -- he should be the last one she'd ever tell, after all.
But all the decisions she believed were right had been marred by failure. Achievements of destruction and little else. Better that she listen to logic. Any except her own.
They had gotten to know her idiosyncrasies in the Inquisitory. Her peers understood, whether by dictation of blood or misplaced conviction, that it was often better to allow the girl her differences. She could certainly be quick of wit and deeply observant; she had made strides forward in her interests, consuming books with rapidity despite how often she stumbled over the words. Her eagerness offset her oak-hard streak of stubbornness; they knew that there was one Junior Inquisitor who would not scoff at mundane matters of delivery or organization--
A positive addition to our fold, some had said. Given, of course, her penchant for youthful impulse.
And this was also why, when she strode through the Inquisitory with skirts in hand and the red flush of exertion on her cheeks, what few Inquisitors remained at that time of night did not stop her, or even offer her something more than a passing grunt or a murmur of her name.
Black sweat danced on her cheeks and stung her eyes as she approached his office door at the far end of the lanky, narrow building. Her blouse dangled like overwet cheesecloth from elbows and hips, and the muscles in her legs burned, throbbed.
Too much running; too many things to say.
A Marshall returned, or so it seemed -- a news that could both startle and surprise; a news that a month ago, she might have embraced with erstwhile, childish glee. But too late. Too late for anything but skepticism and the analogue of sense impounded in her brain by books, books, books--
He was always there; he was a fixture in the Inquisitory, a blinding beacon of hypocrisy that never wanted for a good morning. Not from her. "Giuseppe," Gloria said, blowing out a wheezing breath and hammering the base of her palm against the carved door. Was he there; was he even there? An aroma of burnt wax and simmering oils heavied the air to drive away the ever-pungent odor of ink. Did his candles burn? Did that mean he was there?
"Open this door. Open it," she chimed.
Her voice was devoid of demand, wholly castrated of it. All that was left in her tone was a lilt of confusion and a creak of desperation.