Do we? [She smiles a bit, because no she's (thankfully?) refused to read up on anyone's files. If there was something she need to know, she could wait until she befriended a person and they told her themselves; that was how she chose to look at it.
So she listens intently and nods in understanding, but for a moment she doesn't say much as she thinks.] It's strange. I get sad, of course, when i think of it, but... I have nothing but portraits to remember her by. I miss her, but there's nothing to really miss when I never knew her in the first place.
[Winnie wonders if that sounds callous and she brings her hands together to two twist anxiously on top of the table.] I think I miss the memory of her and the idea of her, of what could have been, more than anything. I don't know what would have happened if she'd survived, and I don't know if, given the choice, I'd choose that over the life I have now.
[Would they have given her away to the government? Would the officials had told them, "you're young and can have other children, you don't need this one" like she suspected they did to many couples? Or would they have worked together to keep her secret, locked away in some far tower like the princesses from her stories?
Winnie gives that humorless chuckle again and bows her head, shaking it at herself.] I suppose that sounds terrible. [After a moment he asks:] Do you get along with your father? Your siblings?
We've never been close. I suppose that's for the best, now. [And it's a question of how much he wants to reveal, isn't it? How much of what he's hidden for so long he's prepared to share?
It turns out it isn't very much. He knows there's more to what she's saying; he's got an unfair advantage, in that he is prepared to poke through everyone's records—he had a few misgivings at first, but he's quickly come to see it as just part of surviving.] It was just my sister and my father, for the most part. But they weren't, ah, family. Just people I lived with. Angry, or—or spiteful. Sad.
[The scarf is tugging again; down in his lap, his hands are twisting. It's not something he can ever change.] Are you really happy with your life? As it is now? You should give lessons, if you are.
[She's about to question that-- angry or spiteful? Why on earth?-- but she understands only seconds after the questions pop into her head. The youngest, and his mother died.
She doesn't say 'I'm sorry,' because at this point those words sound cheap, but she sympathizes.] Agnes is the closest I've had to a sibling, but... I wish I'd had a brother like you. [Winnie means it too, the sincerity clear in her voice.
His next question makes her pause again and she sits back some, looking up towards the ceiling in thought. Winnie can think of many little things she would have liked to change, but when she puts it all together...] Yes. [There's no hesitation and she lowers her gaze to smile at Simon.] I'm very happy. I have Agnes and Mortimer, and my father. I have a purpose and a goal I'm driving for. I'm able to see and learn things I never would have if I'd stayed inside all my life. Maybe the circumstances that pushed me to question it are painful, and of course I wish they were less so, but... I think that pain was necessary. I still wouldn't change it.
[Winnie thinks on it again and then nods as if she's reached a decision that what she's said is true.] I don't know what lessons I could give on it. It's about finding something to focus on, changing your perspective... If I were to list all the bad things that have happened to me, and focus only on those, I could easily say my life was a bad one and unhappy. But I think of the people I've met and helped, and of all the good that came with every bit of pain and think 'It was worth it.'
[The first thing she says catches him by surprise, and he responds in just the way that's got him into so much trouble. He reacts first, tucking his head down, comforted out of proportion to what she's said. Then reason catches up with him, and reminds him of the downsides of her nature, that she'd likely say the same thing to almost anyone.
But that first emotional impression lingers; he's still touched by it. It still counts. When he looks back up, though, listening, his lips have pinched together; she's missed the point he was trying to make.]
I have good memories. Of course I do. [He does; he knows he does. He just ... can't quite remember them, placed on the spot and asked to recall them. Or they're seen through a dark lens, leached of all their colour and warmth. Or they're tainted beyond repair, and can't count any longer. He doesn't know how she does it, and yet the last thing he wants is for her to stop so obsessively seeing the bright side of everything. But it's inevitable.] I just—
For all that your life before was good, on the whole, you are here now. Do you understand me? I—how do you do it?
[Winnie hums thoughtfully, wondering if there was something beneath the line of questioning that she wasn't understanding. Was he looking for a specific answer or guidance that she simply couldn't give him?] I did volunteer to be here...
[A mumble, more to remind him than an actual answer, but she shakes her head.] I don't know. I just know everything will work out in the end, because it has to. I just keep that thought in mind and... put one foot in front of the other.
[She wants to give him the right answer, but it's hard when she has no idea what it would be, or what he's looking for.] Is something wrong, Simon?
Of course you did. I remember you saying. [It's not quite that he'd forgotten; he knows most did volunteer. It's just so hard to picture.
Closing his hands on the scarf again, he counts backwards, and goes over snatches of songs and poetry to calm himself. One of them's the poem she gave him, back before the library. By now, he knows it by heart, every word and rhyme and rhythm.]
"I have not winced nor cried aloud". Do you remember? It's the same thing, I think.
I remember. "Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed." [She's still completely lost on what he's trying to talk about, but she remembers how upset he'd been over the story/riddle she'd told just prior to the poem too.
She leans across the table to touch his arm and speak sincerely.] It's not much-- I can't give you what you're looking for, I think, but I'm here to listen if you need it. I am here for you.
[And he glances down at her hand on his arm, and back up to her. He's not going to crack and confess himself, all the things that are swirling inside him and eating him up. Even if he'd been raised that way, he doesn't believe it falls within his contract; he doesn't want to put ideas into anyone else's head.
Memories, they'd been talking about. Memories of home. His head spins when he tries to think about it, images of closer family than his own and school and work and friends all mixed together, so he just thanks her.] You're a ridiculously good person, despite everything. And if I ever need to talk about it all—I will come to you. But not today.
Are you sure I can't get you something? A glass of water, maybe? I wish we had tea. [He's changing the subject, with a nervous patter of hospitality.]
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So she listens intently and nods in understanding, but for a moment she doesn't say much as she thinks.] It's strange. I get sad, of course, when i think of it, but... I have nothing but portraits to remember her by. I miss her, but there's nothing to really miss when I never knew her in the first place.
[Winnie wonders if that sounds callous and she brings her hands together to two twist anxiously on top of the table.] I think I miss the memory of her and the idea of her, of what could have been, more than anything. I don't know what would have happened if she'd survived, and I don't know if, given the choice, I'd choose that over the life I have now.
[Would they have given her away to the government? Would the officials had told them, "you're young and can have other children, you don't need this one" like she suspected they did to many couples? Or would they have worked together to keep her secret, locked away in some far tower like the princesses from her stories?
Winnie gives that humorless chuckle again and bows her head, shaking it at herself.] I suppose that sounds terrible. [After a moment he asks:] Do you get along with your father? Your siblings?
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It turns out it isn't very much. He knows there's more to what she's saying; he's got an unfair advantage, in that he is prepared to poke through everyone's records—he had a few misgivings at first, but he's quickly come to see it as just part of surviving.] It was just my sister and my father, for the most part. But they weren't, ah, family. Just people I lived with. Angry, or—or spiteful. Sad.
[The scarf is tugging again; down in his lap, his hands are twisting. It's not something he can ever change.] Are you really happy with your life? As it is now? You should give lessons, if you are.
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She doesn't say 'I'm sorry,' because at this point those words sound cheap, but she sympathizes.] Agnes is the closest I've had to a sibling, but... I wish I'd had a brother like you. [Winnie means it too, the sincerity clear in her voice.
His next question makes her pause again and she sits back some, looking up towards the ceiling in thought. Winnie can think of many little things she would have liked to change, but when she puts it all together...] Yes. [There's no hesitation and she lowers her gaze to smile at Simon.] I'm very happy. I have Agnes and Mortimer, and my father. I have a purpose and a goal I'm driving for. I'm able to see and learn things I never would have if I'd stayed inside all my life. Maybe the circumstances that pushed me to question it are painful, and of course I wish they were less so, but... I think that pain was necessary. I still wouldn't change it.
[Winnie thinks on it again and then nods as if she's reached a decision that what she's said is true.] I don't know what lessons I could give on it. It's about finding something to focus on, changing your perspective... If I were to list all the bad things that have happened to me, and focus only on those, I could easily say my life was a bad one and unhappy. But I think of the people I've met and helped, and of all the good that came with every bit of pain and think 'It was worth it.'
Surely you have good memories too.
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But that first emotional impression lingers; he's still touched by it. It still counts. When he looks back up, though, listening, his lips have pinched together; she's missed the point he was trying to make.]
I have good memories. Of course I do. [He does; he knows he does. He just ... can't quite remember them, placed on the spot and asked to recall them. Or they're seen through a dark lens, leached of all their colour and warmth. Or they're tainted beyond repair, and can't count any longer. He doesn't know how she does it, and yet the last thing he wants is for her to stop so obsessively seeing the bright side of everything. But it's inevitable.] I just—
For all that your life before was good, on the whole, you are here now. Do you understand me? I—how do you do it?
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[A mumble, more to remind him than an actual answer, but she shakes her head.] I don't know. I just know everything will work out in the end, because it has to. I just keep that thought in mind and... put one foot in front of the other.
[She wants to give him the right answer, but it's hard when she has no idea what it would be, or what he's looking for.] Is something wrong, Simon?
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Closing his hands on the scarf again, he counts backwards, and goes over snatches of songs and poetry to calm himself. One of them's the poem she gave him, back before the library. By now, he knows it by heart, every word and rhyme and rhythm.]
"I have not winced nor cried aloud". Do you remember? It's the same thing, I think.
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She leans across the table to touch his arm and speak sincerely.] It's not much-- I can't give you what you're looking for, I think, but I'm here to listen if you need it. I am here for you.
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Memories, they'd been talking about. Memories of home. His head spins when he tries to think about it, images of closer family than his own and school and work and friends all mixed together, so he just thanks her.] You're a ridiculously good person, despite everything. And if I ever need to talk about it all—I will come to you. But not today.
Are you sure I can't get you something? A glass of water, maybe? I wish we had tea. [He's changing the subject, with a nervous patter of hospitality.]