Day Thirteen: Denial (6th of August)

Emily Leila Faucet was very confused today.

She brought her hands to her face and rested her tired eyes. It was a rather long and dull day at work and she wasn’t feeling much like correcting illiterate people with their book choices. Her father had told her to stop worrying about the suitable choice of books for each customer (they’d been losing a lot of money because of this, but Emily refused to believe it was her fault... It wasn’t!) and when she saw his fatigued eyes she chose to comply and shut up before he got agitated (even more so than usual).

Emily sighed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She never wanted to admit this, but the fact that she’d woken up the extra early hour to get to her shift drastically improved income percentages for the shop, and more and more potential art collectors were coming around the family bookstore, always asking about a certain painting she made that ‘caught their eye’.

She was more than happy when she sold three of her paintings (granted she didn’t make very much money off it, but hey, at least she was getting extra quid out of it). Emily sifted through the magazines that were delivered that early morning, artfully organizing them on the marble counter just by the window.

Those idiots, she thought superiorly, always indulging themselves in useless illogical garbage. She was fine with it, though, because again, the money was lovely. She stood back, admiring her work with a satisfied nod, and went back to her desk, picking up a piece of paper and a stray pencil to fiddle with. Her hands moved without consulting with her brain (they often did this; hands of an artist, you see). The pencil scratched the paper, and her wrists flowed delicately with the movement of her hands. She paused, glancing properly at what she drew.

She squinted, nibbling at her lower lip. Well, that’s strange.

Was that Myles she drew?

She snorted, casting the paper away from her sight.

That couldn’t be Myles. Now way in hell was that Myles. That would mean she subconsciously thought of him and that was simply insane. Her hands were insane. Why would she be thinking of Myles in the first place, anyway? It wasn’t like she liked him or anything. Far from it, in fact. Yet.. he had been acting... odd around her lately, and she didn’t have that necessary urge to slit his throat all the time. It was true, he had proven to be semi-human two weeks ago at the party and he was actually not that bad to hang around with. He was funny and she had to admit she liked it when she knew she was the reason of him excessively smirking whenever she, him and Beckett were together (which was starting to become a bit of a habit, actually).

She dropped the pencil, staring at her reflection a bit uncertainly. “Did I just think that?” she thought out loud, wincing. She nodded to herself, letting out a panicked ‘oooooooooh’.

Distraction! She needed a distraction and she needed it now. The taxes needed a good sorting through... Emily twisted her face in discontent. She was actually thinking of distracting herself with taxes. How pathetic of her.

And then there was that awkward moment when Grant collapsed on the floor. ‘Pressure point’ he told her? Why had he attacked Grant? He looked really fragile at that point- almost... hurt?

She shook her head. Myles? Hurt? Right. And she was the prime minister of England.

His face though... the image was burned in her head, and she couldn’t shake it out for the life of her. She sighed exasperatedly, throwing her hands in the air. “But he can’t just go around pressing people’s pressure points like it was the most normal thing in the world! It’s a bit inhumane, actually,” she thought, feeling quite righteous. She wasn’t going to let him get away with it.

Emily nodded, determination clearing the fog set in her mind. She was going round their house (sorry, manor) and they were going to talk it through rationally, like adults.

Emily giggled at the prospect. Right. Lock Myles in a room with her and they were sure as hell going 

to ‘talk things through like adults’. It was better than nothing, though.

Grabbing her coat, Emily scribbled a hasty note, slapped it on the counter, and locked the doors of Faucet’s Bookstore, her nose already turning a peachy pink from the biting cold.

- left-foot-fowl
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It's thirteen minutes to five am... ha!