Re: Cass & Mat: the Quiet Home
She hadn't catalogued all the ways in which Matilda had changed. She had, like winter settling in after a fall that had spread out and changed all the colors, washed them out of the light. Cass hadn't the presence of mind, nor the presence presently to discern the shadows and depths, the haunting of Matilda-past that clung to Matilda-present.
She followed. Uncaring of cameras that followed, swivel-eyed and unblinking, Cass wasn't magic, she wasn't mystery in willow-thin heels and a sharp face. She was Cass, a patient number and a record in a book and soft pyjamas, and she followed en route to the director's office.
He was a man accustomed to reason. Such men were, logic and reason were why they were who they were, with a slice of reality to sour things, like lemon in water. Cass didn't like him, but she'd never really spoken to him, except the once. He was unctious. Oily with other people's money, and officious. She disliked officious terribly.