It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

[Late evening of Wednesday, April 21 (day 325)]
[Approaching one's goal, or the end of one's rope, in the less reputable part of town]

It was the soup spoon, oddly enough. An accidental jostle of the draining rack while I was washing up after Sunday dinner, and I saw it start to fall and reached out on simple reflex to catch it easily out of the air. And then I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking at it and turning it slowly between my fingers, which did not tremble or break.

I know--I have known quite well that the dreams are only that, even a shared phantasy is still only smoke and mirrors, but they have affected me quite strongly; I have been haunted by the uncanny clarity of the memory of my hands burning and shattering, and the lost and crumbling words of Bethlehem. And sometimes I will wake in the night and I am unwilling to reach for a light, out of fear that touching something will make my hands fall to pieces. I can certainly keep my home and person presentable, but my movements and grip have become taut and awkward when I pay any attention, as if I feared (so foolishly!) that whatever I was touching would turn to hot brass and sear me to the bone.

But I am well again, I have been since I reached my agreement with Morningstar. I know this, and while I am certainly willing to grant that there are things I do not fully understand, that does not excuse such unthinking and unnecessary avoidance of my calling. A man may accept that he does not possess the sum total of all knowledge without being reduced to a superstitious coward.

I have nothing to fear from dreams.

And it has been months since I worked properly on something.

So I have nerved myself to come out, and come looking for raw material. The streets south of my home are pleasant enough for a short distance, but as you go further and towards the west, a certain dilapidation grows. If I do not find someone, then there will be other nights--perhaps during the weekend, Market always seems to bring in rather a crowd--but I am rather optimistic.

[Open as discussed]

Comments

[regal-vigilante.livejournal.com]

"Of course. I understand that this is the sort of thing that requires prompt attention, and you do have only one eyewitness who was not in a dark alley with a head injury. Shall we?"
You'd be suprised what I have you arrogant son of a bitch.

Wait until Lucien gets Damien out, then gesture for Westin to lead the way. Stop to let him lock his door as I consider my options. Came in too hard, and let him almost catch us in a lie. Doesn't matter if Lucien saw him bashing the kid's head in- he'll be able to say we said we weren't there. I'll be able to keep him tonight, but unless Damien can very positively ID him later, nothing else will come of this. We saved Damien tonight, but I'm almost back to square one.

"If you'll come this way Mister Sagert. I assume cuffs won't be necessary?"

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"Why on earth would they be necessary?" and my surprise is quite genuine. Between my own acquiescence to accompanying her and the frankly unpleasant prospect of running around unlit streets on a clouded night when all my worldly goods are at a fixed address and I am hardly likely to strike out for Dry Run in the clothes on my back like a common vagabond...

Well, I suppose she is used to dealing with a lower class of people. One needn't return home to prepare for running away if one's home is a hovel and one is comfortable with stealing supplies. Not that I am seeing any particular need to plan on leaving in so abrupt a fashion, and as I am occupying myself with these thoughts I find we have arrived at her office. It is a rather short distance, after all.

"I confess," I say, once we are indoors, "that I am not particularly experienced in providing descriptions; should I outline my impressions, or would you prefer to start with questions?"