That is the objective. One of, [Barclay answers, playfully. Her shoes scuff to a stop on the pavement, which stays reassuringly solid beneath her, counterpoint to his hand.
And then here are his arms, right on cue. Under her legs and behind the small of her back, bracing her up. He says something to the cab driver, grateful, and then they're off. His steps are sure and swift below, boot heels clicking firmly across pavement. And then onto-- that must be wood. The air changes on her, no longer the crisp crosswind of the breeze outside but the warmer, closer air of being cloistered inside walls. The mellow, sweet scent of sawdust wanders into the air, and she's suddenly got the impression of a vast space from the vague echo carried by his strides.
His feet go onto metal. There's a mechanical clank and buzz.] You'dve told me if you were afraid of heights, [Barclay says.] Wouldn't you have? I know you're not tremendously fond of exposing your weaknesses, but I believe we're quite honest with each other, most of the time-- [and there's more movement, a muted hiss and mumble, and then he's walking again. Walking and walking.
He takes off her blindfold eventually.
And they're in The Aerie, the sprawling shipyard. The catwalk he's taken her up to is six stories above the ground. Above the water, rather, which washes quietly up foamy on the drydock there, before leading out into the blue vista of open sea. Noon sunlight filters in through the windows overhead. There are brass fixtures and odd little half-finished craft sitting on the platforms below. Not far in front of her, there's a tiny table perched on the catwalk-- just enough for two, with a matching pair of chairs, crisp blue tablecloth. A vase for her flowers. Beef stroganoff fogging up a glass food bell, and a pitcher of what's obviously kompot. The Eudio version is probably not quite like what they had in Russia, but the red berries in the bottom make the effort unmistakable.
There was
effort. Barclay lets go of her once she seems to have her bearings, his fingers folding up the cloth in his hand.] Sturmhond gave it to me, [he says.] A week ago. This whole place is mine. I thought you ought to be the first to see it.
woops
And then here are his arms, right on cue. Under her legs and behind the small of her back, bracing her up. He says something to the cab driver, grateful, and then they're off. His steps are sure and swift below, boot heels clicking firmly across pavement. And then onto-- that must be wood. The air changes on her, no longer the crisp crosswind of the breeze outside but the warmer, closer air of being cloistered inside walls. The mellow, sweet scent of sawdust wanders into the air, and she's suddenly got the impression of a vast space from the vague echo carried by his strides.
His feet go onto metal. There's a mechanical clank and buzz.] You'dve told me if you were afraid of heights, [Barclay says.] Wouldn't you have? I know you're not tremendously fond of exposing your weaknesses, but I believe we're quite honest with each other, most of the time-- [and there's more movement, a muted hiss and mumble, and then he's walking again. Walking and walking.
He takes off her blindfold eventually.
And they're in The Aerie, the sprawling shipyard. The catwalk he's taken her up to is six stories above the ground. Above the water, rather, which washes quietly up foamy on the drydock there, before leading out into the blue vista of open sea. Noon sunlight filters in through the windows overhead. There are brass fixtures and odd little half-finished craft sitting on the platforms below. Not far in front of her, there's a tiny table perched on the catwalk-- just enough for two, with a matching pair of chairs, crisp blue tablecloth. A vase for her flowers. Beef stroganoff fogging up a glass food bell, and a pitcher of what's obviously kompot. The Eudio version is probably not quite like what they had in Russia, but the red berries in the bottom make the effort unmistakable.
There was
effort. Barclay lets go of her once she seems to have her bearings, his fingers folding up the cloth in his hand.] Sturmhond gave it to me, [he says.] A week ago. This whole place is mine. I thought you ought to be the first to see it.