They're reading Hamlet in class - or at least they were, when Effy was still at Roundview. She didn't pay much attention, even then; she had already read most everything of importance under Tony's instruction, and Shakespeare never quite succeeded in capturing her admiration. Too many people letting their lives go to shit over the stupidest problems, each more easily solved than the next.
As such, it's the smallest of smirks that creeps over her lips when she spots the complete writings of the great Shakespeare being used as a doorstop (rendered useful at long last). She lifts one heavy boot after the other to step over the volume and onto the porch, where she climbs up onto the rails - where their humid shelter meets the cold rain - and takes a deep breath.
"'Tis not that bad, actually," she decides, her eyes still closed as a few frozen drops fall against her cheek.
"The rain be not the agony," Ophelia says, hand resting on the handle of the door. The rain suits her, even when it is warm and humid rather than the sort of cold that slips under the skin and rests in the bone. No, rain is not the issue. It is the mud that gives her grief.
"Only the mud and the volumes of it that rest between where I am and where I wish to go. That be the agony in this." She casts a glance at the girl, a slight smile forming on her face. It is nice when it is gentle, but storms rarely are.
To call it agony is a touch melodramatic, Effy thinks, but perhaps that should be expected from a girl who uses Shakespeare as a doorstop and speaks like she comes from the 16th century.
"Where is it you wish to go?" Confined as they are to a single mass of sand and rock, Effy can't imagine anyone being in a particular hurry to get from one end to the other.
"To the barn." She extends a hand, pointing in the direction that she shall be travelling as soon as she wills her feet to move. For now they are at odds with her head and she not inclined to push much further.
No lover of storms is Viola, and each day her impatience with the Island's tempestuous mood doth worsen. This hath happened before: days upon days of ill weather, enough to make her tree-house seem a ship's hold, rocking and swaying and being lashed with unrelenting rain. For something so beloved, something she holds dear for all the love poured into the making of it, to transform into something so dreaded and despaired of is no less dispiriting than the grey gloom of all the world beyond it
( ... )
"Hello good Hunter," she says bending her knees slightly to offer a hand to the dog as she offers a smile to her friend. The weather is not ails her, not entirely, for while it impedes forcing her to stop and rest it will end eventually. She worries about the wreck it will leave in its wake. Nothing that is not used to it can last so long in a world that has gone entirely to water.
"And hello to you. Are both of you fairing well in the dregs of this new season?"
"We are... faring," Viola answers, though 'tis well apparent that her implication is not nearly as neutral as the words themselves. "He fares much better on land than asea, and I cannot argue that, but-- O, madam, stand you back a moment, else he'll drench you," warns she, with time enough to spare the maid that very fate.
Hunter shakes himself vigorously, scattering droplets of water every which way. Once contented, he finds a drier place to rest; Viola cannot help but look on a moment, appearing chagrined, before remembering herself and her manners.
"Thou wilt be staying here until the rain abates?" 'Tis not so much an innocent inquiry as a bid for confirmation, for she finds-- as usual-- that it pleases her to know that Ophelia shall be best off just where she is.
Being drenched is not new to her, not in this weather at least and certain not from before but she concedes taking a step back from the hound as he does that business.
Pushing the strands that are clinging back from her face, she offers a tiny shrug. "Aye, or until I cannot stand to tarry on. One will win out but which I do not know it."
"In or out?" Geoffrey says as he watches her, warm cup of coffee in his hands and no intention of going back outside now that he's in. At least, not for a little while. Not till he remembers what it feels like to be dry. "Sooner or later you're going to have to make a choice. Tough luck, I know, but true all the same."
Pursing her lips Ophelia considers how badly she wishes to be out. It is greater than her desire to be indoors by a mile, but the damp and the mud are not pleasant alternatives.
"Out, but not now. I shall carry on waiting until I must."
"Must is probably coming up more quickly than you want to admit," says Geoffrey. It's not that he doesn't like the outdoors, but he's pretty content being cooped up for now, and confident in the idea that nothing on the island is a permanent state of being, except for those things they choose themselves. "You have places you need to be?"
"It always is," she concedes, having felt that tug her entire life. It pulls her down, but Ophelia is not one to let it own her. Not any more at least.
Tilting her head she nods as she looks at him. "Aye, a horse to attend to but it is less pressing than not."
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As such, it's the smallest of smirks that creeps over her lips when she spots the complete writings of the great Shakespeare being used as a doorstop (rendered useful at long last). She lifts one heavy boot after the other to step over the volume and onto the porch, where she climbs up onto the rails - where their humid shelter meets the cold rain - and takes a deep breath.
"'Tis not that bad, actually," she decides, her eyes still closed as a few frozen drops fall against her cheek.
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"Only the mud and the volumes of it that rest between where I am and where I wish to go. That be the agony in this." She casts a glance at the girl, a slight smile forming on her face. It is nice when it is gentle, but storms rarely are.
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"Where is it you wish to go?" Confined as they are to a single mass of sand and rock, Effy can't imagine anyone being in a particular hurry to get from one end to the other.
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"Out of this place, really."
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"And hello to you. Are both of you fairing well in the dregs of this new season?"
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Hunter shakes himself vigorously, scattering droplets of water every which way. Once contented, he finds a drier place to rest; Viola cannot help but look on a moment, appearing chagrined, before remembering herself and her manners.
"Thou wilt be staying here until the rain abates?" 'Tis not so much an innocent inquiry as a bid for confirmation, for she finds-- as usual-- that it pleases her to know that Ophelia shall be best off just where she is.
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Pushing the strands that are clinging back from her face, she offers a tiny shrug. "Aye, or until I cannot stand to tarry on. One will win out but which I do not know it."
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"Out, but not now. I shall carry on waiting until I must."
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Tilting her head she nods as she looks at him. "Aye, a horse to attend to but it is less pressing than not."
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