Jenny Winklevoss (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notverywise) wrote2012-07-06 12:15 am
notverywise) wrote2012-07-06 12:15 am
Entry tags:
there's no smoke without fire
After she finds it, Jenny wonders if maybe she ought to have seen it coming. From what she knows, it's hardly uncommon around here, after all, for things to show up like this, to hit where it would hurt most, and it isn't as if the bookshelf's ever been especially kind to her, usually filled with copies of Jane Eyre, as if it knows what will get to her. She might be somewhat better at ignoring it these days than she was at the start, but that doesn't mean she likes it any, the sense that someone or something out there knows more about her than she's told anyone here, with the exception of Cameron. Things like that, they aren't random; the number of people she sees swearing at this stupid piece of furniture on a regular basis serve as proof of that.
However logical it might be, though, it still manages to catch her off-guard, which she supposes, in retrospect, might be the point. This has to be deliberate. Of that, she has no doubt, fingers skimming along the spine of a copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe that she doesn't need to draw off the shelf to recognize. It's hers, the one she read over and over when she was younger, more significant now than it was then. Despite her certainty, she pulls it from between the other volumes anyway, letting it fall open to the first page. To dear Jenny, it reads, in fine blue cursive, with the pleasure of meeting you. Come and see me again soon. Clive. Not in C.S. Lewis' own hand, of course, though that had been the game, her parents believing it even when they had every reason not to, that excursion to Oxford enabling her to share David's bed for the first time. It had been the first — no, not even — lie of may. She should have seen what he was. She should have known better.
None of that makes any difference now, of course. Things have changed since then, and she's learned a great deal, albeit too late to take back any of the mistakes she made, the damage done probably irreparable. She has it much better here, and what's more, she has a life he can't touch, with someone who cares so much about her despite knowing what she did. That doesn't make this any easier to see, the reminder of her own foolishness and how carried away she'd gotten far from a welcome one. Drawing in a deep breath, she turns to lean back against the shelf, book still open in her hands, not yet realizing that she isn't alone.
However logical it might be, though, it still manages to catch her off-guard, which she supposes, in retrospect, might be the point. This has to be deliberate. Of that, she has no doubt, fingers skimming along the spine of a copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe that she doesn't need to draw off the shelf to recognize. It's hers, the one she read over and over when she was younger, more significant now than it was then. Despite her certainty, she pulls it from between the other volumes anyway, letting it fall open to the first page. To dear Jenny, it reads, in fine blue cursive, with the pleasure of meeting you. Come and see me again soon. Clive. Not in C.S. Lewis' own hand, of course, though that had been the game, her parents believing it even when they had every reason not to, that excursion to Oxford enabling her to share David's bed for the first time. It had been the first — no, not even — lie of may. She should have seen what he was. She should have known better.
None of that makes any difference now, of course. Things have changed since then, and she's learned a great deal, albeit too late to take back any of the mistakes she made, the damage done probably irreparable. She has it much better here, and what's more, she has a life he can't touch, with someone who cares so much about her despite knowing what she did. That doesn't make this any easier to see, the reminder of her own foolishness and how carried away she'd gotten far from a welcome one. Drawing in a deep breath, she turns to lean back against the shelf, book still open in her hands, not yet realizing that she isn't alone.