The clay pots sat in uniform rows in front of him, squat, with wide, round caps. Externally identical. He frowned as he looked at them, the chief medic pacing on the other side of the table.
“I need them done fast, do you hear me?” Calysia was saying, probably annoyed by his lack of eye contact, “Here's a list of their defining attributes, here are the labels because no, no, Copperfield, I don't trust your handwriting and I never will. Get to work.”
“But Miss Wraithwood-”
“No buts,” she snapped, and before he could get in another word she was gone.
This left Copperfield in quite the predicament. Brows knitted together, he reached out and lifted the endmost pot, uncapping it and peering inside at a tangy, pale, viscous mixture. His gaze shifted slowly to the piece of paper Wraithwood had left, her neat writing rolling out in long, unfathomable rows over the grubby parchment. He frowned deeper. It was a bad idea not to follow Wraithwood's orders. The woman had very little interest in excuses and quite a lot of interest in long, cruel punishments. Reaching out, he lifted up a label at random and set to work.
By the time Wraithwood swept back into the tent every pot was labelled and Copperfield sat off to one side, watching them all with a thoughtful expression.
“Hullo miss.”
“Unbelievable. You actually did it.”
“Yes, miss, I took all the labels and-”
“And I'd thought I was just keeping you occupied in one place for a while. Incredible.”
“I was, miss, very occupied, but you see-”
She was picking up pots, inspecting the lay of the labels, smoothing out air bubbles and admiring her own handwriting.
“Pressed down straight. I never.”
“That wasn't the hard part, it was-”
“Of course it wasn't the hard part, I'd done the hard part myself. Writing up fifty labels is tiresome work.”
She wasn't inspecting the contents of the jars at all, he noticed. Just the text on the labels and how well stuck down they were. Her back to him, she started scooping up jars and setting them on her wobbling makeshift shelf, until the weight of all that glass and fluid held the rickety structure still. She looked at him over her shoulder as she slipped the last jar into place.
“Even more excellent than it needs to be. Well done, Copperfield's steady hands.”
“My hands have always been good, miss, but I think-”
“You can think it's nothing all you like. I'll still be quite impressed.”
“No, no, it's just-”
“Shush. You deserve a break.” She handed him one of her ration vouchers. “Get yourself something to eat. I need to get back to business. Some sort of plague strain is doing its evil, I just needed this...”
She cast her gaze over the full shelves, then extracted a few jars whose labels looked similar to Copperfield.
“Enjoy dinner.”
And she was gone again, medic's robes streaming out behind her. He set quietly in the tent, looking from the open tent flap to the rows of jars, the ration voucher limp between his fingers.
“But miss,” he said to the empty air.
He looked down at the page, where the characters sat dull and lifeless in their dark ink.
“Miss, I can't read.”
25/2/09
“I need them done fast, do you hear me?” Calysia was saying, probably annoyed by his lack of eye contact, “Here's a list of their defining attributes, here are the labels because no, no, Copperfield, I don't trust your handwriting and I never will. Get to work.”
“But Miss Wraithwood-”
“No buts,” she snapped, and before he could get in another word she was gone.
This left Copperfield in quite the predicament. Brows knitted together, he reached out and lifted the endmost pot, uncapping it and peering inside at a tangy, pale, viscous mixture. His gaze shifted slowly to the piece of paper Wraithwood had left, her neat writing rolling out in long, unfathomable rows over the grubby parchment. He frowned deeper. It was a bad idea not to follow Wraithwood's orders. The woman had very little interest in excuses and quite a lot of interest in long, cruel punishments. Reaching out, he lifted up a label at random and set to work.
By the time Wraithwood swept back into the tent every pot was labelled and Copperfield sat off to one side, watching them all with a thoughtful expression.
“Hullo miss.”
“Unbelievable. You actually did it.”
“Yes, miss, I took all the labels and-”
“And I'd thought I was just keeping you occupied in one place for a while. Incredible.”
“I was, miss, very occupied, but you see-”
She was picking up pots, inspecting the lay of the labels, smoothing out air bubbles and admiring her own handwriting.
“Pressed down straight. I never.”
“That wasn't the hard part, it was-”
“Of course it wasn't the hard part, I'd done the hard part myself. Writing up fifty labels is tiresome work.”
She wasn't inspecting the contents of the jars at all, he noticed. Just the text on the labels and how well stuck down they were. Her back to him, she started scooping up jars and setting them on her wobbling makeshift shelf, until the weight of all that glass and fluid held the rickety structure still. She looked at him over her shoulder as she slipped the last jar into place.
“Even more excellent than it needs to be. Well done, Copperfield's steady hands.”
“My hands have always been good, miss, but I think-”
“You can think it's nothing all you like. I'll still be quite impressed.”
“No, no, it's just-”
“Shush. You deserve a break.” She handed him one of her ration vouchers. “Get yourself something to eat. I need to get back to business. Some sort of plague strain is doing its evil, I just needed this...”
She cast her gaze over the full shelves, then extracted a few jars whose labels looked similar to Copperfield.
“Enjoy dinner.”
And she was gone again, medic's robes streaming out behind her. He set quietly in the tent, looking from the open tent flap to the rows of jars, the ration voucher limp between his fingers.
“But miss,” he said to the empty air.
He looked down at the page, where the characters sat dull and lifeless in their dark ink.
“Miss, I can't read.”
25/2/09
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