Emma Frost (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
xp_whitequeen) wrote2003-05-15 05:34 am
xp_whitequeen) wrote2003-05-15 05:34 am
Morning Frost
It's almost dawn. I'm writing this from the balcony of my suite, where I can see the sun taking a fearful first look at the deep, rich velvet night that it means to chase away. I wanted to be here to see this. The first light of day refreshes me. It's that moment between chill and light, that moment where you can see that disappearing whisper of dew slide across the landscape like a thin silk. The morning frost.
The children are all sleeping. I can feel their minds in the rooms behind me; I have woven myself into their dreams, to chase away the shadows and give them rest. I do it to protect them from fear, but as I'm here I can feel their little dreams, pulsing like beating hearts in my hands. Sweet children. The bogeyman won't come for you tonight.
In the morning I must send some people to the school, to prepare for the children's return. We must get them back as soon as we can, so that their lives can begin to feel normal again, for whatever value we can place on normality. I sent some workmen to board the windows and begin repairs. Hank went to the school to supervise, and he's still there now. It must be strange, being alone in the vast halls of a ghost school.
I have asked the hotel to prepare a vast breakfast in one of the function rooms. Pancakes with maple syrup, yoghurt and fresh strawberries, Canadian bacon and waffles, Danish pastries, thick, sticky malt shakes, sharp grapefruits for the older children and sweet, syrupy mandarins for the youngest; everything the hotel can provide. We will all eat together, as a school.
I've also ordered some toys to be brought in from FAO Schwartz, to keep the children distracted throughout the morning. We shall then return to the school in expensive limousines with CD players and televisions, ice cream cabinets and Coca-Cola pumps. One cannot buy the children's happiness, but one can maybe make the worries and doubts a little easier to bear.
Ah, here comes the sun. How does the song go? "It seems like years since you've been here."
The children are all sleeping. I can feel their minds in the rooms behind me; I have woven myself into their dreams, to chase away the shadows and give them rest. I do it to protect them from fear, but as I'm here I can feel their little dreams, pulsing like beating hearts in my hands. Sweet children. The bogeyman won't come for you tonight.
In the morning I must send some people to the school, to prepare for the children's return. We must get them back as soon as we can, so that their lives can begin to feel normal again, for whatever value we can place on normality. I sent some workmen to board the windows and begin repairs. Hank went to the school to supervise, and he's still there now. It must be strange, being alone in the vast halls of a ghost school.
I have asked the hotel to prepare a vast breakfast in one of the function rooms. Pancakes with maple syrup, yoghurt and fresh strawberries, Canadian bacon and waffles, Danish pastries, thick, sticky malt shakes, sharp grapefruits for the older children and sweet, syrupy mandarins for the youngest; everything the hotel can provide. We will all eat together, as a school.
I've also ordered some toys to be brought in from FAO Schwartz, to keep the children distracted throughout the morning. We shall then return to the school in expensive limousines with CD players and televisions, ice cream cabinets and Coca-Cola pumps. One cannot buy the children's happiness, but one can maybe make the worries and doubts a little easier to bear.
Ah, here comes the sun. How does the song go? "It seems like years since you've been here."
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Will you at least take a short respite after breakfast?
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And I think Ms. Braddock is right... you should rest...
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