The book was all that she could save from the fires, but it was a reminder that even the smallest victory was still just that; a victory. It was a guilty secret that she carried in the pocket of her coat. The binding was worn and cracked, but it still carried the faint earthy scent of leather, even as the pages smelled of lavender. Someone had pressed flowers between the pages - she encountered stray petals here and there. Perhaps it had been a way for the former owner to mark his favorite passages.
She worked late that night, trying to concentrate on the paperwork. Branston made her fill it out, which was fair considering she had him do most of the legwork now. She hadn't the stomach for it any more. It also allowed her to track investigations, to send little anonymous warnings on slips of plain white paper. It wasn't much, but it was everything that she had.
Maria finished typing the report on their latest raid and told the computer to save and distribute. During her first days, she'd had to carefully check her phrasing for hints of emotion; now, it was habit.
Almost of its own accord, her hand reached into the pocket and brought out the book. The flaking gold leaf shone warmly even in the fluorescent lighting. A little thrill of fear and anticipation ran through her; it was what she had needed. It was a reminder and a small act of rebellion all in one. It was late enough that no one would see her, but she still read with the images of Father surrounding her. She sometimes imagined them with a faint disapproving look at these times, like he'd eaten one too many prunes.
Holding the book wasn't enough today, not after a night of writing reports full of death. She glanced around again, he breath coming a little faster, and peeled her gloves off, one finger at a time. The leather creaked as she rolled them into a ball, then stuffed them in her pocket. The book was balanced on her knees, hidden from the cameras by her desk.
The smooth, worn leather of the cover was like the delicate skin of a lover in her mind. Slowly, she opened the covers and chose a random page, smoothing her fingers over the fine grain of the paper, the almost undetectable depressions of print. The words echoed like notes of music in her mind, and she mouthed them silently to memorize the feel of them.
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's
surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this
only, we have existed...
She closed her eyes, running the words over again in her mind, fascinated by the dream-like quality of them and the faint feeling of sorrow. Footsteps interrupted her thoughts, and she sat up quickly, smoothing her expression back to one of utter calm. She even tapped a few keys with the hand not holding the book, for effect.
"You're working late tonight, Cleric."
Doing her best to mimic the motions of someone being pulled away from a report, she turned to face him. Her stomach clenched with fear, and even though she knew her expression was unwavering, she could almost feel her face becoming pale, then ashen. "Cleric Preston. It's a pleasure to meet you again. I've followed your career with a great deal of interest."
"Thank you. I've heard about you as well, Cleric Jabez."
"I'm finishing up some paperwork for Cleric Branston. I'm still recovering, so it's what I'm best for at this time," she said, offering up the excuse.
"I see. Where are your gloves?"
She cursed mentally, her fear climbing up another notch. "Irreparably dirty, Cleric Preston. I haven't had the chance to requisition another pair."
"That's understandable. Here, I have an extra set. They'll no doubt be a bit large, but better than nothing until you're able to acquire a new pair." He held out the gloves, his eyes never leaving hers.
As quickly as she could, Maria slid the book under her leg and then took the gloves, pulling them on. "Thank you, Cleric Preston."
"You can return them to me when you no longer need them. Take care of yourself, Cleric Jabez." He said, nodding to her once before he continued on his way.
Maria was frozen to her seat, eyes wide with wonder. Only the sound of the door shutting reminded her where she was; she quickly turned to her keyboard and pretended to go back to work, her thoughts scattered far and wide. As Cleric Preston had turned away from her, for just a moment he had smiled. The expression was tiny and faint, easy to miss and no doubt subtle enough to not be picked up by the cameras.
But it had been there.
Carefully, she slid the book from under her leg and put it back in her pocket, before logging out of her computer. All standard procedures were followed; she had to act as if nothing were amiss. Her heart hammered in her ears again, but it was excitement, not fear that made it race as she walked from the building. Her hands swam in the too-large gloves.
One thought ran through her mind, over and over. She had to see that smile again, and answer it.
[Note: The bit of poetry is from Part V ("What the Thunder Said") of "The Wasteland" by T. S. Eliot.]