there's a howling in the factory yard, there's a pounding in my head [open]
[timed to morning of the 29th. very fucking early morning.]
If Ros said she hadn't been sleeping terribly well lately, she'd be implying that she ever had. She's been a hairtrigger sleeper since she was a girl, since long before she had cause to wake up in the middle of the night; it's as much a part of her as her temper, or the small cold part of her that sizes up everyone she meets and ranks them as potential threats.
But the dreams lately have been worse than usual, and a spy's usual can be very bad indeed. It's the third morning she's woken up before dawn, hands shaking and a cold sweat beading at her hairline, and the third morning she's dressed silently in the dark and slipped out of the Tower to run. She has a route established, looping through Grant Park, and while even that degree of routine makes her less than comfortable, the flick knife taped to her back goes some way towards allaying her concerns.
As far as she's concerned, it's only a necessary precaution; she's been picking up the odd job recently, the sort of thing someone with her training and experience can do without a cover strong enough to hold up to much official scrutiny. It's not precisely what she's ever seen herself doing with her life, and she can't say she's proud of herself, but you do whatever you have to, in a corner, and she's come to accept that she's not making it out of this one any time soon.
She doesn't think anymore about getting a decent passport, trying to make her way back to London; she couldn't make it past the door of Thames House, even if some versions of the people she knew are still there, and she tries not to dwell on things she can't ever have.
If Ros said she hadn't been sleeping terribly well lately, she'd be implying that she ever had. She's been a hairtrigger sleeper since she was a girl, since long before she had cause to wake up in the middle of the night; it's as much a part of her as her temper, or the small cold part of her that sizes up everyone she meets and ranks them as potential threats.
But the dreams lately have been worse than usual, and a spy's usual can be very bad indeed. It's the third morning she's woken up before dawn, hands shaking and a cold sweat beading at her hairline, and the third morning she's dressed silently in the dark and slipped out of the Tower to run. She has a route established, looping through Grant Park, and while even that degree of routine makes her less than comfortable, the flick knife taped to her back goes some way towards allaying her concerns.
As far as she's concerned, it's only a necessary precaution; she's been picking up the odd job recently, the sort of thing someone with her training and experience can do without a cover strong enough to hold up to much official scrutiny. It's not precisely what she's ever seen herself doing with her life, and she can't say she's proud of herself, but you do whatever you have to, in a corner, and she's come to accept that she's not making it out of this one any time soon.
She doesn't think anymore about getting a decent passport, trying to make her way back to London; she couldn't make it past the door of Thames House, even if some versions of the people she knew are still there, and she tries not to dwell on things she can't ever have.