As soon as she woke up, she wrote down: Christophers partron acts in a circus.
The word circus jolted Richard it had to be a coincidence, she cant have found out about the Circus. Partron is most likely a neologism, or Poet jargon.
There was a knock at the door, Richard shuddered. He quickly put the red notebook back to where it was and opened the door to find breakfast served appetizingly on a cart. Richard knew Alexandra will be happy to see the pot of coffee and a jug of warm milk, but wont even touch the food He wanted to display himself as trying to be thoughtful, though not always getting it right.
She came out of the bathroom in her underwear, her hair in a messy bun, her bangs parted on her forehead. Richard sat in the chair in his underwear, too, scrolling through the news on his phone, appearing bored, he took some time before he turned to smile at her.
Good morning.
He was awake when she woke up, and pretended to be asleep. His eyes closed, he listened to her stir and stretch across the wide bed, he felt her glance and heard the sigh of her scoff.
Right away, she got up and went to the living room to write something in the red book.
She seemed unhappy to see him unhappy that he didnt think to leave.
Good morning, Richard, she said.
Richard put his phone down and approached her he headed to the bathroom. Alexandra appraised him openly, half-smiling, he stayed in his underwear on purpose, to show off his six-foot tall bodybuilder figure broad chest and shoulders, six-pack and round ass The white snake of a scar on his left shoulder, a pink blot of a scar on his right pectoral, something pale, a barely noticeable scar or burn, on his left thigh. If she turned to follow him with her gaze, shed have seen two more under his left shoulder blade and under his right knee.
He walked past her, closed the door, and met his own eyes in the mirror.
He needed to find out who Christopher is.
Alexandra didnt wait for Richard as she went to pour her coffee, climbed onto the couch it still glittered from yesterday and stared into the void until the bathroom door opened.
Im afraid to read the news, she said, forcing a smile.
Then dont. Your managers will tell you everything you need to know the rest doesnt matter.
His hair was wet as if he didnt dry it at all, wetness glistened on his neck, shoulders and thighs. He wont be able to seduce her with that.
I forgot to thank you. Thanks. For sticking with me through this, for Well, you know
She waved her hand the empty cup in her other as she tried to explain her feelings, but it was a rare moment when Alexandra the wordsmith was at a loss for words.
I was happy to help. And I will be happy to help if you let me.
She simply sighed.
The lawyer didnt call. Theyll likely take our fingerprints you, me, everyone in the official lists. They wont be able to identify all guests there wasnt a registration for the event.
A real detective Richard sat next to her and carefully took the cup from her hand.
Its not your fault. None of it. The police will handle it. Youre safe now, Im here, no one will dare to put you in danger again.
On and on he goes! Like he wants her to jump at every shadow, to dread staying alone.
They probably wont try to poison your food again, he nodded at the breakfast cart.
Alexandra scoffed.
I know. Whoever it was, they were trying to provoke me, not kill me.
Richards face fell slightly, he started turning the cup in his hand, watching the smears of coffee foam inside it.
Alchemists see symbols even in the abstract like a Rorschach test.
It could have been one of your haters they feed on fear.
It wasnt a hater, Alexandra protested, and when Richard looked at her, added, their methods are less sophisticated.
A scentless poison handed directly to her, a rational explanation will come later along the way. And the innocent victims name will sink into the crowd.
She had no proof just her gut and what William and Christopher had told her in her visions.
Then who? Do you have any theories?
He tried to understand, to figure it all out but to a layman her symbols were mere fantasy tropes, not truth or objective reality.
Everything needs to be called by its name and the nameless must be named.
Id call it a conspiracy of writers, Alexandra said. And a bad set of circumstances where Im to be guillotined for my freethinking ways.
Richards not interested in books only in her. How does she get it through to him that her writing is her life, that everything is important and interconnected? He always listened carefully, and she still couldnt grasp why because he was trying too