Straight gin was probably -- definitely -- a mistake, and she grimaces after gulping some down. But better to wince at the taste than at the story Thomas is telling her.
What is she supposed to do with any of this? None of the stories she read as a child have prepared her for anything like the tale Thomas is weaving for her. She can look at each disparate piece and recognize what the appropriate response to each one would be, but she doesn't know what to make of the whole. The tidy, convenient romance of it all -- he loved Edith, and she him (and there's something so unsettling about hearing him simply speak of it, without even the barest hint of a melody), and that was enough to finally tip the scales -- is undermined by the question of whether his other wives had loved him, and why that hadn't been enough for those poor women. Is it possible to buy salvation at that price?
And then there's a part of her -- a larger part than she'd like to admit -- that is perfectly willing to discard all of this, because it doesn't even apply, here. Here, he owns a shop and is beholden to no one. Here, he has been nothing but good to her. Here, there is no sister and no house and nothing for her to forgive.
So what is she supposed to do with all this? Say that it's all right, that she doesn't mind, as if none of it matters? Or punish him for crimes he committed in another life? Neither option feels right, and a wave of bitter resentment washes through her that she should still be forced to choose something, to respond somehow. She tries to rinse the feeling away with another swallow of gin, which doesn't especially help.
And then he reveals that Lucille killed him. He remembers. She remembers him telling her that he remembered everything.
"Of course she did," she says flatly, unkindly, and she winces at herself a moment later. "Sorry. I shouldn't..." she trails off, because god only knows what she should, at this point. Leave, probably, but what would be the point? His own sister murdered him, and now it's her job to rub salt into the wound?
no subject
What is she supposed to do with any of this? None of the stories she read as a child have prepared her for anything like the tale Thomas is weaving for her. She can look at each disparate piece and recognize what the appropriate response to each one would be, but she doesn't know what to make of the whole. The tidy, convenient romance of it all -- he loved Edith, and she him (and there's something so unsettling about hearing him simply speak of it, without even the barest hint of a melody), and that was enough to finally tip the scales -- is undermined by the question of whether his other wives had loved him, and why that hadn't been enough for those poor women. Is it possible to buy salvation at that price?
And then there's a part of her -- a larger part than she'd like to admit -- that is perfectly willing to discard all of this, because it doesn't even apply, here. Here, he owns a shop and is beholden to no one. Here, he has been nothing but good to her. Here, there is no sister and no house and nothing for her to forgive.
So what is she supposed to do with all this? Say that it's all right, that she doesn't mind, as if none of it matters? Or punish him for crimes he committed in another life? Neither option feels right, and a wave of bitter resentment washes through her that she should still be forced to choose something, to respond somehow. She tries to rinse the feeling away with another swallow of gin, which doesn't especially help.
And then he reveals that Lucille killed him. He remembers. She remembers him telling her that he remembered everything.
"Of course she did," she says flatly, unkindly, and she winces at herself a moment later. "Sorry. I shouldn't..." she trails off, because god only knows what she should, at this point. Leave, probably, but what would be the point? His own sister murdered him, and now it's her job to rub salt into the wound?