Participles and Portents (9)

Fire and Regrets

She was really just too blasted angry to care what he had to say.  She stuffed her gear back into the pack and pointedly ignored him.  Picking up the flashlight she set off to the crevice and the fine clean air that awaited her; clean because it would not reek of Roary, damn the man, James.

He watched her packing, her moves efficient and full of anger.  He knew there was no point in talking to her, yet he felt the need to make her understand.  She simply had no idea what she had gotten herself into.  Crazy, stupid Americans, they simply had no idea of what could happen in this wild and untamed land.  He watched as she heaved the pack onto her back and strode off with the flashlight.  There was nothing else he could do, he had followed her this far, he would simply have to continue.  Glancing back at the sleeping bird and his calm companions, he sighed. At least some peace seemed to be coming from all of the upheaval.  Whether or not it would remain peaceful was something no one would be able to predict.

She could hear him behind her.  It really was a shame that he did not have the decency to wait until she was clear of the area before coming out.  He may have followed her in, but he most certainly should have had the courtesy to wait and not be seen following her out.  She picked up speed in the hopes that she could get out and scramble down the rock and over the strand quickly enough to avoid another conversation with him.  She made her way out and onto the ledge, secured the flashlight and was happy to note that the tide had not yet rolled in.  She would not be stuck here with him.  Breathing in her relief, she pulled on her gloves and began the climb down.  She went a bit too fast, lost her footing just near the end and landed in an ungainly heap on the rock.  "Blast it all to Hell," she grumbled.  Getting up she checked to make sure she was all in one piece (with the day she was having, it seemed likely that she would break something).  Grateful to find all the parts in working order, if a bit bruised, she took off at a brisk speed for the cottage.  When she reached the path she looked back, smiling when she saw him just managing to find his own purchase on the rocks before the strand.  Fabulous, she would get back to the cottage well before he could gain on her.

"That woman moves like quicksilver," he thought.  There would be no catching her now, which meant going to the cottage and trying to get her to agree to talk to him.  He wasn't sure if he could face her in that space.  Would she be able to see his guilt in his face?  He began to wish fervently that he had not read any of that little green note book.  He knew far more about Ms. Lin Carroll than he should.  He was certain he knew more than she would ever tell another soul.  Why he had not stopped reading when he realized what the little book was he could not explain.  He was just captivated by the words and the drawings there.  The way she used symbols, calligraphy and language to express so much more than the words alone could do was hard to resist. 

It struck him then that it was not at all strange that the bird had let her try to heal it.  There was a certain uniqueness about her that drew trust from a person.  And he had more than defiled any reasonable definition of trust when he read that little book of hers.  He found himself at the cottage door, his hand poised to knock.  He stood there, suspended for a moment, then he turned and took the path to the village.  He had to talk with her, but on neutral ground, preferably in daylight.  He was not going to face her in the cottage over her firelight.  Besides, he had a great deal of research to do if he was going to try to explain what he thought she had stumbled into.  Enough to see him through the night at least, or at least he hoped it was enough to see him through the night.