(no subject)
Emma has long since learned that it's best not to get too attached to anything or anyone, and that's not something she's ever thought to have much trouble with here. To stand on her own two feet, wanting nothing from anyone else, is the only way to be sure not of success but a chance on it, self-reliance the only way. It's a lot easier, she remembers now, to fake than to live.
She was never especially fond to Kate, but, in her own stony way, she adored Jenny. That isn't really the point, though. Losing two students almost at once, even in a situation without any blood shed, hits just a little too close to home for the White Queen. She can deal with the frustrations of this place if she has to, though she refuses to do so uncomplaining; she can bear all its indignities, suffer through the silence in her head. This, though, bothers her more than she'd admit even if she had anyone to confide in, which she emphatically does not.
While she isn't about to blame herself for this one, not when she can't realistically have been expected to keep the girls somewhere they really couldn't have wanted to be anyway, it's still galling, not least of all when she's aware her work with Rogue has been less than successful of late, too. It's with her mind full of this that she starts toward the Compound after an afternoon on the beach and, somehow, in the course of keeping a wary eye on the natural world around her, fails to pay attention to the boardwalk beneath her feet, heel catching in the crack between two planks, just barely catching herself before she goes over. There's no stopping the copy of Gone with the Wind or the magazines, though, one thudding right down as the rest flutter away.
Huffing, she pushes her hair out of her face, bending down as she tucks her leg up to check the state of things, but it's too late to salvage the shoe and, possibly, her dignity. Scowl on her lips, she gives the book at her feet a kick, tempted just to leave her reading material scattered along the path and hobble her way home.
She was never especially fond to Kate, but, in her own stony way, she adored Jenny. That isn't really the point, though. Losing two students almost at once, even in a situation without any blood shed, hits just a little too close to home for the White Queen. She can deal with the frustrations of this place if she has to, though she refuses to do so uncomplaining; she can bear all its indignities, suffer through the silence in her head. This, though, bothers her more than she'd admit even if she had anyone to confide in, which she emphatically does not.
While she isn't about to blame herself for this one, not when she can't realistically have been expected to keep the girls somewhere they really couldn't have wanted to be anyway, it's still galling, not least of all when she's aware her work with Rogue has been less than successful of late, too. It's with her mind full of this that she starts toward the Compound after an afternoon on the beach and, somehow, in the course of keeping a wary eye on the natural world around her, fails to pay attention to the boardwalk beneath her feet, heel catching in the crack between two planks, just barely catching herself before she goes over. There's no stopping the copy of Gone with the Wind or the magazines, though, one thudding right down as the rest flutter away.
Huffing, she pushes her hair out of her face, bending down as she tucks her leg up to check the state of things, but it's too late to salvage the shoe and, possibly, her dignity. Scowl on her lips, she gives the book at her feet a kick, tempted just to leave her reading material scattered along the path and hobble her way home.