Camilla hates what he did with every fiber of her being. And it's that ancient aching grief-and-relief which propels her into Palamedes' arms like she's seeing a walking talking miracle, now burying her face in his scrawny chest, her arms going around him. Not since they were children had she sought comfort like this, but she has to fist her hands in the fabric of his robes, has to draw him close, hang on like she's drowning in the waters off Canaan House. The embrace draws out, lasting longer than it ever would've normally. At his question, she laughs a low chuckle and swipes at her face as she finally pulls back a step.
"Yes, but because I need to be sure you're real." And she punches him in the shoulder. And then pinches herself in the crook of her elbow. Doing little tests, insofar as it's even possible to scientifically prove or disprove that you're experiencing a mass hallucination or complete breakdown of reality.
(It occurs to her, just a little too late, that Harrow had tried to do much the same thing, in throwing her construct at Camilla. Maybe she shouldn't be so smug the next time she sees the other girl, if she ever sees her again.)
And then, for good measure, she seizes one of his hands and investigates the long, delicate scholar's fingers, as if searching for the seam, the split in the illusion which will prove it all wrong.
"You're not bones anymore," she says. A beat. She doesn't ask the question, because they know each other well enough that he can practically hear it in that unspoken pause anyway: Are you real?
no subject
"Yes, but because I need to be sure you're real." And she punches him in the shoulder. And then pinches herself in the crook of her elbow. Doing little tests, insofar as it's even possible to scientifically prove or disprove that you're experiencing a mass hallucination or complete breakdown of reality.
(It occurs to her, just a little too late, that Harrow had tried to do much the same thing, in throwing her construct at Camilla. Maybe she shouldn't be so smug the next time she sees the other girl, if she ever sees her again.)
And then, for good measure, she seizes one of his hands and investigates the long, delicate scholar's fingers, as if searching for the seam, the split in the illusion which will prove it all wrong.
"You're not bones anymore," she says. A beat. She doesn't ask the question, because they know each other well enough that he can practically hear it in that unspoken pause anyway: Are you real?