“Maelle is,” she says, firmly. “And when you break, she does too.”
She shifts on her seat, up onto her knees, like sitting even an inch taller gives her some sort of advantage. The distance between them feels immense.
“We found the 58’s journal,” she says. She can’t bring up being separated from Maelle, not like this. She can’t create the spectre of danger. She continues, earnestly: “I wish he’d told you what he did tell us —— that he and Renoir had not spoken in decades. He doesn’t consider Renoir family. I thought he would, Gustave.”
no subject
She shifts on her seat, up onto her knees, like sitting even an inch taller gives her some sort of advantage. The distance between them feels immense.
“We found the 58’s journal,” she says. She can’t bring up being separated from Maelle, not like this. She can’t create the spectre of danger. She continues, earnestly: “I wish he’d told you what he did tell us —— that he and Renoir had not spoken in decades. He doesn’t consider Renoir family. I thought he would, Gustave.”