you're living make believe

Isla take your medicine No, they have never needed to wade through these particular waters before, and Isla is still too stunned to realise the distance between them. She keeps wanting to look over her shoulder at the billowing plumes of smoke, or at the bodies silent between them. So instead she leads them on and into the graveyard, where a few holes have already been dug (morbid and practical). "A huntsman and a grandmother?" she asks, sounding doubtful. "I don't think they could have done anything to warrant this." Remi, though? He might have rubbed a few people the wrong way in the Grounds, and when she smiles at him it's with a touch of sadness. "No, you aren't. But I am, especially when fire is involved. And that's one way to hurt someone, if you can't kill them. You kill their friends." She doesn't know either, why the distance between them suddenly seems so awkward. But then she can't get the image of him in the infirmary out of her head either. "I was just going to go home," she murmurs. "Won't Ronin worry if you disappear and don't come back?" Her shoulders slump, and she shrugs. "My life just went up in smoke. I don't think I am alright either." All of her books, her files, her tools, her medicines; the operating theatre and her office with its comfortable chairs and worn wooden desk. Everything she'd painstakingly cleaned and organised and sanitised, all gone. And people were dead. "Why would they go after an infirmary, Remi?"