"Actually, John," she calls, "give me a minute, will you?"
Empathy and worry are written like a headline across his handsome face--but right now she'll
take it. "Sure," he says. Like they have all the time in the universe.
Elizabeth turns back to the open sky.
The baked-clay is heavy in her hands, perversely heavier now that it is empty. A sudden urge to
hurl it into the unnamed sea nearly overwhelms her; the muscles in her shoulders tighten and clench
with the need to act. Instead, she balances it on the thin lip of the balcony, guarding it lightly
with her own hands.
There is a smudge of ash on the rim. It clings to her fingers as she tries to wipe it away--silky
soft and dark. Coffee-spoon measures of life. All that she was, contained in that tiny little space.
All that she is, contained within this city.
She should go back in, should start the meeting in that little conference room, should make plans to
shore up their defenses and further their chances to get home. She should brush off this melancholy,
should take the lessons she has learned and put them to good use.
Sometimes she sickens herself with her 'shoulds'.
She told herself to be easier on herself. Her lips rise a little in ironic appreciation; it's not
the first time she's given herself that advice. And it won't be the first time she ignores it. There
is far too much at stake here--more than she's ever faced before.
In this lifetime, anyway.
There's far too much at stake, and so Elizabeth turns her back on the open spaces and salt breeze.
Work awaits her. If she feels a little bit trapped, a little bit pressured...well. She's handled
pressure before, and no space can be as small as those that held her other life.