[ It's a long, long time before Augustine says anything else, either. Long enough for the light outside to change, for day and night to switch places; long enough for John to have cleared everything out of Augustine's room and dumped it on the lawn; long enough to have moved himself into Augustine's room and made a nest in the bed, between the swords and the blanket, out of dirty laundry; long enough to have set the house on fire and leave it nothing but smouldering ashes; long enough to have gotten a good dinner and a bottle of Trench's fanciest wine inside him; long enough to have started shitposting on the network, maybe. ]
«Are you still there?»
[ It's wistful; it's a little afraid, and definitely off-kilter, and maybe even has a faint hysterical edge of remembering the phrase Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret — whoever the hell Margaret had been, whenever the hell that phrase had mattered to anyone. ]
«Don't — don't go, like this — I'm so tired of the dark and cold, already —»
[ There's a momentary flicker of his voice, his presence, his attention — as if he's turned away, to talk to someone else. ]
«Of course I need you here, don't be an idiot — don't you want a break from me? I should think you'd be tired of being buried there.»
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«Are you still there?»
[ It's wistful; it's a little afraid, and definitely off-kilter, and maybe even has a faint hysterical edge of remembering the phrase Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret — whoever the hell Margaret had been, whenever the hell that phrase had mattered to anyone. ]
«Don't — don't go, like this — I'm so tired of the dark and cold, already —»
[ There's a momentary flicker of his voice, his presence, his attention — as if he's turned away, to talk to someone else. ]
«Of course I need you here, don't be an idiot — don't you want a break from me? I should think you'd be tired of being buried there.»