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[PSL] in this sense the open jaws of wild beasts will appear no less pleasing than their prototypes
The bread that is over-baked so that it cracks and bursts asunder hath not the form desired by the baker; yet none the less it hath a beauty of its own, and is most tempting to the palate. Figs bursting in their ripeness, olives near even unto decay, have yet in their broken ripeness a distinctive beauty.
nope just incompetence
Breakfast is the same as supper - maybe even the same batch left to cool overnight then stoked hot again this morning. He swallows down some of the thin soup as Thomas performs his examination, clinging as a shadow to Frances rather than to the other man. But James watches, eagle-eyed, as Leroux and Victor wind Thomas into some halting conversation that's as much gesture as French.
"Doctor, you said you'd like to trade." This from their defacto leader - Mr Masson, his dark eyes all heavy and temperament unchanged from the evening prior. "What things do you prefer before you go? Very sorry, but they paid only for one night."
i forgive u
When he registers the question (doctor? honestly), Thomas sits back and pushes himself to his feet, joints quiet but protesting internally. "No need for sorry, we're already packing. One moment." Still seated, Leroux follows Thomas with his eyes, and Victor looks somewhat pinched. Perhaps the subject of their hospitality was under debate somewhere out of their hearing; even more reason to be on their way. If the men who'd prefer to invite them to stick around are displeased, it means there's vocal opposition.
"James," is quieter. "What do we need and what are we offering?"
That they are more keen on trading today must be a luxury bought by Leroux's consciousness. That's fine.
thank
"We need food, something to carry water in, and the canvas and rope if they'll part with it. Gunpowder and shot wouldn't hurt either, but--" The former is more dire. If they find themselves in a position where they need more rounds than they have, where they need every weapon in their possession, then the situation might already be hopeless.
There are other things hypothetically on the table - manual labor of the acceptable kind, information about the territory they've crossed - but better to let the Frenchmen suggest it. It's possible neither is valuable to them and mentioning it seems too potentially vulnerable to bother leading with. Nevermind that Masson seems perfectly willing to be done with their company before some trouble finds this place. He'd rather not extend themselves without reason.
no subject
The Frenchmen don't have much in the way of transportable food, but offer a modest hunk of raw deer meat wrapped tightly in a cleaned membrane of some kind, gut or intestine. A waterskin, the canvas and rope, and shot and powder from Leroux personally ("Give it over," he insists haltingly at Masson's less than enthusiastic reaction, "I bought it.") make up the rest of what they'll part with in trade for one of the pistols. The fine one from Oglethorpe's house, chosen for what Thomas suspects is its high resale value, and he's personally somewhat relieved to be rid of it. If guns of that make are recognizable or not, he doesn't know, but better it be here than with them if they are.
Business sorted, Thomas crouches down again in front of Leroux to thank him and talk a little more about the practicalities of looking after himself-- "You're not guaranteed anything just because you got up, you have to be mindful or you'll squander your body's hard work to get this far" --and then it's joining the others to finish packing up.
"You don't think they'll follow us, do you?" Sophie is asking, so very quiet.
no subject
It's a reasonable thing to do. Clearly the eight of them are trouble of some kind, but is the risk worth whatever might be earned from it? Particularly when profiting off them would require the confirmation of an unknowable rumor and a long trek back toward civilization. Or maybe they are simply a kind of decent - sure that there is something wrong, trusting that a group made up largely of white women in the middle of the woods must somehow be victimized, and respectable enough not to press too hard at taking advantage of the obvious.
He's suspects the former - that their company is simply too more trouble than Masson perceives them to be worth. That's fine. They're leaving and so the motivations of the Frenchmen make absolutely no difference.
It takes considerably less time to break down the canvas in clear weather than it did to set up during the storm. Strange - how the folding and packing away of that flimsy shelter makes them seem so suddenly vulnerable there at the edge of the camp. Once again, they're untethered: trespassers. Bettina seems sharp and brittle in the open air, her pale hair tangled and her face very pale. She's staring, too secretly wild to be mistaken for anything but ready to be gone- gone-- gone---
James helps Richard haul Bes upright, checks the pistol at his waist, then hauls one of the packs up onto his shoulder. "Ready?" He should be asking the woman with the bullet hole in her leg, but he's looking at Thomas.
no subject
Are their adolescent patron saints are still out there, watching, he wonders.
For so long, Thomas had found himself incapable of imagining what the woods outside the plantation might be like - his world for years had been walls with no windows, peeling hospital plaster and cold stone, and it stole something intangible from him. When he found himself able to, bit by bit, memories of the countryside and visualizations of fairytales found him, timid daydreams of alien forests and shorelines. In his mind it was always beautiful, peaceful, but empty. That thing stolen away, leaving him isolated even in imagination.
The reality of it is terrific - causing terror, great intensity, extremely good, all of it - so alive. From worms and birds to the deer that past them, whole communities and cultures of native peoples wisely keeping their distance, imperial cast-offs wandering to define their own lives. It's beautiful enough to make him feel choked with an emotion he can't name if he thinks about it pointedly, and also-- so frightening, and he doesn't know why. Feelings he hasn't ever experienced before, can't qualify.
But he is feeling.
"Ready."