Re: The Bohemian/The Companion
Charlotte was a cipher to Phoenix, and she understood her purpose entirely. The outward expression of internal sentiment was delegated to individuals of no consequence, who patiently accepted their living in exchange for being the expounding of frustration, slights, ill humor and giggling confidences. Although in reasonable estimation, the latter was less likely than the formers. She was presently an amusement to the sloping lines of the individual draped somewhere between seat and table, or at the very least a channel into which disposition could be poured. Charlotte's own currents were subsumed. She accepted this with the same serenity with which she sipped her tea.
"You look unwell," she said frankly. It was kind and a little meek. Charlotte did not pass censure or judgment, her concern was solely whether Phoenix ought to be prone in a compartment somewhere with a warmed pan at their feet and a compress on their head and a pile of plush blankets between Phoenix and the world, a safeguard as well as an amelioration for fever.
"Nobody pretending to be good is good. You can try to be good, and you've a chance of success but no one is born good or knowing exactly how to be good." Charlotte watched the trajectory of cheese to mouth. She smiled.
"Would they be dark recesses if I showed anyone who asked what it was they contained?"