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You don't answer Jan's question immediately, weighing up your options and trying to judge how he might react. In the end, though, you look at it in a far simpler way – if you were in his position, you'd want to know the truth too.
“She said that she wanted to see you, actually,” you tell him, “Though, I don't know why. I don't know what she might say.”
“She...” Jan falls silent, taking off his glasses and nervously polishing them as he thinks. His face is a study in conflicting emotions, a guilty relief warring with dread and anxiety.
You hold your tongue, but his silence draws out longer and longer with no sign of ending. “Jan?” you prompt eventually, “What do you think?”
“I want to see her too,” he whispers, “I know you probably think that I'm a fool, and you're probably right, but I don't... think she's a bad person. She's just as much of a victim as I am. She never chose to be born into this family, born how she is. Growing up here, never knowing the outside world... can you really blame her for acting the way she does?”
You can, actually, but you're polite enough to keep that thought to yourself. “I won't tell you not to see her,” you tell him calmly, “But I would strongly suggest that you don't visit her alone. I'd prefer it if I could keep an eye on you both.”
Jan stares at you for a moment. “You think she's... dangerous?” he asks eventually, “Is that it?”
“I think that's a possibility,” you confirm, “But she's had a hold over you before. I'd rather not give her an opportunity to try it again.”
With a hint of a bitter smile on his face, Jan nods. “I understand,” he says softly, “I need to think about it. But if I do decide to see her, I'll let you know beforehand. We'll see her together.”
“Good,” you nod, “I'll be in the library when you've made up your mind. Take your time.”
-
Knocking lightly at the library door, you peek inside to confirm your suspicions. Elle sits slumped at one of the readings, an open book sitting unread before her. Clearing your throat to get her attention, you pull across a spare chair and sit down opposite her. Like most of you, she looks worn and haggard by a lack of sleep. Looking up, she struggles to give you a warm smile of greeting before abandoning the effort.
“So,” you begin, “I heard you threw a book at Ariel.”
“It wasn't a very large one, though,” Elle insists, holding up a small tome by way of example, “And I missed anyway. I don't think throwing books will ever be one of my talents.”
“Pity. I heard there was going to be an Emanation of throwing books,” you lament, “But I suppose someone else can be their champion.”
“You know, you're really not as funny as you think you are,” Elle points out, finally smiling despite herself.
“I think I can live with that.”
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