Re: Cass & Mat: the Quiet Home
Matilda always looked cold. It was a small thing, but it lodged like a shard of glass or perhaps ice, but it lodged for Cass somewhere dreamy, somewhere that moved sluggishly but stubbornly, persistent. Matilda who looked cold, but cold was a circumstance of the living and Matilda was somewhere betwixt alive and dead, neither wholly one thing nor the other, not with knowledge.
"The person who gives the pills doesn't make the policy," Cass said, patiently. Or as patiently as someone wrapped within a spider's web's worth of silk might explain when the legs danced delicately ever nearer. "It's the director. Of the Home. And the board, but they listen to the director, I suppose. I don't want to take anything," she blinked, starfish-eyelashed, consternation in pallid face. "Not anything prescribed," she corrected herself. By anyone who was not herself.