In case you want to listen to the radio programs that will be in this chapter. I found them quite enjoyable!
ESCAPE "THE ORIENT EXPRESS"
watch?v=qgpDUXAjgho
MARIO LANZA & KATHRYN GRAYSON RADIO PROGRAM 1949
watch?v=jRZk32N9ZUc
Chapter 2. The Orient Express
The Moon lingered overhead illuminating the ground below so that the night had not felt as dark as it had before. She was watching her, that Moon. Always following. Her surroundings held a soft glow that seemed to round edges and cast gray shadows. Shadows that grew into shapes they should not have been like castles and flying things. Shadows that danced.
The table stood firm near the door. A light was pouring from underneath the door frame but she turned from it. The candles that flickered happily there on the table tried to invite her to sit down. The cement wall of the house was cold. They were all somehow familiar to her. Like she had been here before. Like she would be there soon. Long plant arms nestled nearby and dangled welcomingly. She ducked under some of these arms as she made the choice to leave this place. They tickled her skin as a tender goodbye.
Soft grass reached up between her toes. Her feet were bare and she found that the rest of her flesh was as well with only the swish of her hair against her back for company. Fairy lights were congregating just beyond the cover of overgrowth adjacent from her. They were playing small instruments that tinkled and vibrated. She lingered to watch them for a moment. How they danced around one another in swirls and circles. Creating patterns in the air. Laughing as they played.
But she felt compelled to press on. Pulled to continue moving away from here.
Ahead, she heard water trickling into itself. There was an overhang of vines and leaves. As she pushed these aside she saw the Moon reflected in the deep waters as though She too had come to dip her toes and steal away from the night. Hide away from something unpleasant. To be born anew if only for this one night. To forget that.
Sansa stepped forward emerging herself in its translucent embrace. The water felt warm under her feet as she glided down the steps embedded within the natural pool. Walking deeper into the pool, the water kissed her stomach and her hair floated at her sides.
As she moved down she became frightened.
'Tomorrow then' said a deep voice so close she felt the breath on her ear.
Sansa started awake with her breath caught in her throat. She came to see that she was in her bedroom. Releasing her breath, she rolled away from her windows towards the wall that held her bedside table where a powder-blue clock rested. It was late morning said the clock, though she could have guessed as much with the quantity of light invading her room despite the window's silky curtains. Sansa groaned and covered her eyes with a forearm. Her head thrummed a bit as she remembered how she had returned to her apartment the night before. She had been paraded home in a cab that was transporting Margaery back to her place on its final stop. There had been bawdy laughter. There had been impressions of people they had become acquainted with that night. Margaery had stolen a gentleman's hat and was wearing it obscenely as she smoked a cigarette. A drop of her keys in their bowl, a bump of her hip against the kitchen table, which she could now rudely feel the aftereffects of, and a careful slide out of her dress. Bed. Glorious bed to stop her head from spinning. A bed to giggle into one last time before the magical evening slipped away to live on if only in memory. Sansa realized that she was still in her delicates from the evening before. She had not even bothered to change into nightclothes.
After the opera had ended, Margaery had insisted that they continue their night with drinks at the hotel across the street. It posed to be the prime location where most of the top socialites would be gathered. They must go. It was essentially the VIPs of the already limited VIPs. 'We just have be there or we will miss out on all the fun!' Margaery had insisted. So they went and drank, and laughed, and danced until late into the night. Until the sun was threatening to rise declaring a new day had begun despite many wishing the opposite. No one else had asked to buy her paintings, but plenty of men asked to buy Sansa drinks.
With a sigh that would have been more fitting from her sister Arya, Sansa pushed away the warmth of the covers and placed her feet into the slippers that stood their station on the floor. She was relieved to see that the gown from last night was mindfully draped across her reading chair rather than a pool of petals on the floor. Margaery would have been so displeased with her if Sansa had mistreated the gown.
Slippers, robe, tea, paper. It was a morning regimen that could be considered religion.
Donning a robe and padding to the kitchen, she let out a most unladylike yawn and started the burner for her tea kettle. Her kitchen was a modest size but Sansa made sure to have all the essentials to cook a decent meal. In the cabinet above her refrigerator, she still had a couple spoonfuls left of a breakfast tea her mother had sent from Paris last month. Sansa opted for this instead of the green tea she sometimes drank. Tea was a bonding point for the Stark women that even wild Arya partook in. Every morning during the war, they would rise and take tea before the push and pull of whatever was to become of the day. Even if none of them spoke much on a morning, it was a quiet solely for them to enjoy together. As a unit. To remember that they still had each other. To remember that small moments still existed.
I should send the playbill from last night to mother. She would absolutely love that and maybe come down to see it with me sometime.
She consulted her stomach and decided against toast for the time being. Perhaps after she washed, her stomach would find the idea more agreeable. Pouring a cup once the kettle sung its welcomed siren scream, Sansa pulled open her balcony door and leaned forward against the railing. The mid morning sun was warm on her skin although it was already mid September. She never minded the cold but was rather used to it from her childhood growing up in Portland. Margaery was always scolding her that she would get sick from doing this in the winter, but Sansa never did.
Traffic flowed by beneath her and life carried on not meaning to wait for anyone. Not that anyone cared if it waited or not. On this side of the building, the streets were more narrow- only allowing one way traffic. A mother was pushing her child in a stroller across the street past the bookshop settled there. On one of the balconies to her left, she watched Mr. Bianchi as he watered his plants and gave him a small wave when he looked up. In the apartment across the street, Sansa caught a flash of black hair.
A little late for her. Maybe she had a long night as well…
She was a petite woman with olive skin and raven hair that fell to her shoulders. Her apartment was a little below eye level from Sansa's but that did not distort her view. Every morning, this woman opened her curtains admitting the sunlight so that she could perform sun salutations. Naked. It really was quite a performance. It was rhythmic the way her arms followed a perfect path from floor to sky, side to side, and sky to floor. How her hair fell across her face and slid off. The bend and fold and stretch of her body. How there were moments when the practice stilled and breathed. The delicacy of the movements and the obvious power and purpose to them were mesmerizing.
When their schedules overlapped, Sansa would watch as she sipped on her cooling tea. At first, the woman acknowledged her audience with a smile that mortified Sansa so much so that she would stay inside for days. Despite her embarrassment though, Sansa would find herself on the balcony again. Waiting. Watching. Eventually, Sansa challenged herself to return the smile and remain on the balcony. Some days, if she was feeling particularly bold, Sansa would give her a thumbs up that always made this woman's body shake with laughter. It slipped into Sansa's morning ritual, this secret game between the two of them.
Having made quick work of her tea after the woman had finished her salutations, Sansa passed across her quaint living area to her front door. Checking the other apartments along the hall, she confirmed that most of her neighbors had already long started their Fridays. Most people though, did not have the freedom of time such that Sansa's occupation allowed her. It was one of her favorite perks but it forced Sansa to mold her own soft sort of structure. She picked up the paper and closed the door relocking it.
One of the first items on Sansa's checklist when she moved into this New York apartment had been to buy a subscription to the paper. The paper was always consistent. It would wait for her each morning and would never tire of telling her stories and sharing it's pictures. Front page news was dedicated to something about a jewelry store robbery downtown. Again. She fingered through the pages until she reached the gossip section. It was a delightful, maybe cliche guilty pleasure of hers, but it always gave her and Margaery something to review over meals. It especially provided them ample material to discuss if Margaery made an appearance on those pages or if the woman herself had sent in a tip about another. The woman sure had a way of conveniently positioning herself a few steps ahead of the press and more frequently than not, it was enjoyable.
With the pages opened wide, there he was captured on the top right. The Hound. They had stolen a photo of him last night as well as a few of the other celebrities as they arrived at the Opera. He donned that scowl on his face again. That scowl that made him look horrid. One she had seen in the papers many times before. The man Bronn was beside him and looked like he was yelling something back to the paps. Sansa had the displeasure of opening a car door only to be overwhelmed with strobing camera flashes a few times before. It was not a sensation she felt like she could ever grow comfortable with.
He looks different than the man I met last night.
Then she remembered how angry he became when Margaery suggested that Sansa paint him.
Maybe not so different. He probably was as angry as he looked and the few instances of quiet kindness were blips. She placed the paper on a table to review more in depth later.
Sansa retreated through her bedroom and into the attached bathroom all the while disrobing. The space was a simple white tile and cream walls. Rather small, it did not have room for a vanity, but did house a tub more than large enough to fit all of her. She started the shower, since there was no time for a bath with the extra sleep she had abused, and checked her appearance in the mirror. Her face was a little puffy and her belly a little bloated from the drinks. Hair was a wild tangle from what must have been a tossing type of sleep. She usually braided it before bed but she was just grateful to have had the mind to remove her makeup, though that detail was a little fuzzy. Some battles were won while other were lost she supposed.
Wrapped in her pale, blue negligee with wet hair dripping down her back, Sansa made good on that toast and the rest of the gossip section before examining the lesser bits of the newspaper. At her desk she saw that she had sloppily scribbled "The Hound" in her appointment book at some point last night. Staring at the scribble, she thought about how this was going to be a different challenge that evening, painting him. He was so starkly different from her usual subjects of old men, blossoming young girls, and the occasional dog. The old men were easy enough to humor. Most just yammered on about how "important" they were with a display of who they knew, their vast accomplishments, or stories about the "good old days." The young ladies opposingly, tended to be wildly entertaining if Sansa could charm them enough to open up about their crushes and dreams. She usually did. Time with them passed the quickest and most agreeably.
Maybe he will be restless like the young children are. And Sansa imagined this hulk of a man swinging his feet and huffing out exasperated complaints about being hungry and wanting to be outside instead. It made her smile to herself until she remembered how her pulse had raced when she saw him in that hallway. How he had stood so close to her. A little too close.
Maybe he will get angry with me again. Maybe he will not want to be here. He probably will not come at all. She shook her head to scatter those thoughts.
According to the weather report from the paper and her balcony, the afternoon was going to remain mild like it was in the morning. Sansa laid out a tea length gray skirt and a light blue blouse with the bow at the collar. Taking a seat in front of her white vanity in the bedroom, she considered herself for a moment. The day consisted of mainly errands but she did have a meeting scheduled for the afternoon with a woman who wanted a portrait of her goddaughter painted. Sansa decided on a simple winged eye, a coat of a light brown eyeshadow, and a neutral lip that she would bring in her purse to apply later. Once clothed, she worked her mostly dry hair into a loose braid that reached the middle of her back and put on a pair of heels that she knew she could walk a distance in without fear of blisters.
Grabbing leftover soup from the fridge, Sansa retrieved her gray wool cap from the closet and her keys from their bowl. Her neighbor, Mrs. Lewis, was out of the country traveling for the past week, and would be until the end of the month. Sansa, the ideal neighbor, had agreed to feed the cat once when Mrs. Lewis had to leave unexpectedly. She steadily held the job of cat watcher since.
The cat's name was Green Bean and he was the fluffiest, gray ragdoll cat Sansa had ever seen. Mr. Bean, which is what she herself dubbed him, was currently sprawled out shamelessly on his back in the middle of the extravagant living room. Expensive lamps and the excess of furniture were almost overbearing. Mrs. Lewis had been widowed at a young age, but her sons had their feet firmly placed in the plastics industry. They ensured that their mother was more than taken care of. This was the apartment she raised her children in and she would not part with it.
Knowing the routine, Mr. Bean sprang to life once Sansa dropped her things on the kitchen table and opened the balcony door. This was not something Mrs. Lewis asked her to do but Sansa knew Mr. Bean, and what he enjoyed most in his life was that balcony. Once, when Sansa was reading Dickenson on her own, she met Mr. Bean on his respective cushion across the way. He had been crying and begging her for some of her turkey sandwich. Never one to turn away a new friend, Sansa had obligingly tossed a few pieces over to him. They had been chummy ever since.
Placing a new bowl of wet food outside for her voluptuous friend, Sansa sat cross legged next to him while she ate her own lunch. She told Mr. Bean about the gossip section and how The Hound was coming that night for her to paint him as he groomed himself having already wolfed down his food. Once they were both finished, she checked that his litter did not need changing, which it thankfully did not today, and said her goodbyes. Since they were on the fifth floor, Sansa did not fear that Mr. Bean would try to escape from his balcony. Really, she doubted that he would ever try. He was the laziest creature Sansa had ever met. No interest in birds or bugs. The cat was satisfied with watching the traffic pass by and with snoozing in the sun, for which looked promising today. Sansa would not rob him of this, but would come back before night arrived to make sure he was inside and to close the doors.
Stepping out into the entrance way of her building, Sansa was greeted by Tom the doorman and the blare of a car horn.
"Good afternoon, Sansa," doorman Tom said with a sweet smile.
Doorman Tom was a bit older than her father's age and not nearly as tall. He was smaller than Sansa actually, but shortness was not something that emotionally plagued Tom like it did other men who tried to overcompensate. With a trimmed mustache and rosey cheeks, Sansa rarely saw Tom in a foul mood. She had taken to him the first day she had moved in.
"Hello, Tom" Sansa greeted him while moving out of the way of a mother and small child entering the building.
"Off to the Library again?" Tom asked her.
"Unfortunately not today. I have a meeting to attend and some errands to run."
"Well Miss Sansa, you could not ask for a more beautiful day for it. Though I do not think this warm weather is going to last. It's going to be a wicked winter and it will come on fast I say." Tom was looking up at the slow rolling clouds as if it were all written there waiting for him to read. Maybe it was.
For the past year and a half that Sansa had lived here, Tom had been predicting the weather patterns with an odd accuracy. When she would need an umbrella, when the forecasted snow would merely be rain instead, when the morning clouds would part ways to a perfect sunny afternoon. He insisted it was because he came from a long line of farmers and because of a childhood with more hours spent outdoors than in. Sansa had insisted that he make predictions for the newspaper because those were usually only half right.
Sansa has once asked him how he came to live in New York and was not a farmer himself. Tom's answer changed with each tennant he revealed his story to. The tale began that he had loved a girl who worked in a nearby town where he would to sell his father's cows' milk. How her hair was the color of honey and her laugh even sweeter. It was a thrilling courtship with secret messages and town hall dances. Stolen kisses and long walks. That they had fallen in love and planned to marry despite her father's desire to give her to someone else with more money. That they had eloped and ran away to New York to find work. To leave everything behind and start anew together. And then the tale would here deviate. He would say that she and the babe had died in childbirth. That she had left him for another man. That she went off to be a dancer. That her father had found her and took her away from him. That her father found them and killed her. How he had lost his first love is what changed within the story each time he had told it- never how much he loved her. Sansa could read in his eyes that that bit was at least true, and came to accept that some truths were just too painful to face. Tom had found another woman who he married years later. Her name was Elisa and they had three girls together.
"I hope you are wrong, Tom." Sansa laughed as she turned to leave. She took two steps before she remembered. "Oh Tom! I have a um, I have someone coming for a session tonight. If he asks, can you tell him my room number? You recall how they always forget to bring the card and then they cannot remember where I am." Sometimes Sansa wondered if it would be easier to just rent a studio space instead.
Tom gave her a knowing wink and a nod as she left.
Days like this were truly a treasure in New York. A subtle breeze loosened baby hairs that tickled Sansa's cheeks as she hummed a tune to accompany the tapping of her shoes. The buildings shrunk into single townhomes as Sansa's feet traveled to their destination.
The woman Sansa was going to meet, Melvian Garth, had heard about her from Mrs. Adams who was a previous client. Mrs. Adams was the wife of a William J. Adams, the lawyer for The Metropolitan Opera House. Halfway through the commission, Margaery had confided in her that she heard from Agnes, a chorus girl, that Mr. Adams was having an affair with a new girl in the company, but not to tell anyone. Maybe Margaery everyone's secrets because she had a face that inspired mischief in even the most somber of people.
Well this secret- that was only really kept secret from Mrs. Adams- made the remaining painting sessions complete agony for Sansa. It was a few months after the portrait was complete when Sansa heard that Mrs. Adams was no longer being called so, and that the divorce process was brutally messy.
Once she arrived at the address for Melvian Garth, Sansa took a steadying breath and rang the bell. A footman opened it for her and showed her inside after introductions. Sansa was presented to the woman of the house in a side room that was off the living space. Numerous landscapes and still lifes adorned the eggshell painted walls. The furniture looked more stiff than comfortable and the hardwood floors were newly waxed. Upon seeing Sansa and the footman, the two ladies who occupied the room stood.
"Mrs. Garth, I present you Miss Sansa Stark," introduced the footman.
"Thank you, Andrew. You may leave us," said Melvian Garth without a trace of emotion in her voice. She was tall for a woman though not in height with Sansa. Her composure had a particular pinched look as if she made the face after eating a sour lemon tart and that the face had decided to stick around. Her garb was a modest but well made cranberry colored dress paired with a cream sweater and pearls.
Shaking her hand, Sansa told her it was pleasant to finally meet her and was promptly introduced to the goddaughter, Gemma Barnes.
Gemma was a small thing and could be no more than fourteen. Doll like, her hair was straw blonde and brushed to a soft wave. Her features were small and she must have been tiny for her age as well.
"Miss Stark please sit. Now I have talked a long while with William Adams about the portrait you painted for his- excuse me. For the former Mrs. Adams. I even spoke with Debra herself and they both had nothing but compliments to shower your name with. Believe me, I was skeptical at first, but then I saw the painting," Mrs. Garth said with sharp eyes that were trying to look right through her.
Sansa internally groaned. She had experience with women like Mrs. Garth. Women who saw Sansa's profession as a hobby that she should only pick back up again once the children were grown. That she should not be working but married and pregnant. Most of them never voice so, but the way Mrs. Garth was looking at her, Sansa knew.
"That is most kind of them to say so. Debra was a delight to sit with." To be honest the woman never really spoke much during their sessions.
"She is quite agreeable. Now I am going to trust you, Miss Stark to do exactly as you did for Ms. Debra Harris and paint my Gemma. She will be wearing this dress- Gemma stand up and turn around for Miss Stark. There you are." Her long, birdlike hands waved in the air.
Gemma was spinning in a mint green gown with lace trim around the neckline, waist, and cuffs. The outfit almost looked like a ballet costume coming to end right below the knee. When Gemma had sat back down Mrs. Garth continued, "The portrait will be of similar dimension to Ms. Harris' and will be full body as well. I do want Gemma to be placed at the piano bench behind us and to have a portion of the instrument included in the frame."
"Mrs. Garth how do you suppose to have the piano transported to my-"
"No," the woman interjected. "You will be painting Gemma here in this house. Her schedule with her studies and practices are too time consuming and too important to have her waste it commuting to you."
Sansa was not anticipating this. She had not been required to paint outside her established studio space in a long time. The thought of lugging her equipment here was loathsome.
"Yes, pardon me. That is not a problem." Sansa said instead of voicing her complaints.
The duration of the meeting passed without hiccup and soon enough Sansa was walking out the door with another commission.
Taking an alternative route home, Sansa made her way to the market. She had a list in her pocket of a few things she needed to pick up. A fresh loaf of bread, some spices, and small bottle of wine. Having made quick work of these purchases, Sansa wandered aimlessly through the flower booths. She could never resist their vibrant charms and smiling faces as they lured her in. They just begged to be painted. Begged to be given the adoration they deserved. A woman named Julia always put together the most beautiful arrangements for her because she knew Sansa appreciated the art and skill it took to get it right. How some flowers complimented each other and how others were sometimes better showcased on their own. Today, Sansa settled to a bouquet of pink roses that were too perfect to say goodbye to.
Bag over her shoulder and flowers in hand, Sansa's last stop was at a deli she frequented. It was owned by a vivacious Italian family headed by a woman who was named Maria but insisted everyone called her M. She was always scolding Sansa that she was too thin and that she needed to marry one of her sons. Sansa always declined the marriage offer but M always gave her an extra roll with her order anyways.
The bell chimed as Sansa stepped in to the smell of fresh bread and various meets wafting through the air. One of the grandchildren was behind the counter slicing a large piece of ham. Was it Tommy or Paul? She could never tell the twins apart.
"Sansa, dear!" bellowed Maria as she appeared from the back room and met Sansa at the register. "How was the opera last night? Oh the pictures in the paper looked electric!" M settled herself on her stool and crossed her arms across her breasts. She was a woman in her mid sixties and full of figure. The woman never lost her beauty and seemed to only develop more spunk as time wore on. Handsome and loud were the words Sansa would use to describe her.
With stars in her eyes, Sansa could not contain her glee while filling her in. "M, it was to die for. One would never dream of such dresses."
M looked to her grandchild and ordered, "Make Sansa's usual, Paul honey." Back to Sansa and in the same tone M pushed, "The men Sansa, tell me about the men. I bet they all flocked to you. Oh, I bet they were all so devilishly handsome."
"Dashing of course." This delighted the woman.
"And the opera? How did you enjoy it? I have read mixed reviews."
"I quite enjoyed it." Sansa only partly fibbed. She had a hard time keeping up with the pace of the performance even with Margaery filling her in with what she missed during her bathroom trip. It was unlike her.
M was too lost in her own reminiscing of fabulous men and her time as a singer in a speakeasy to notice that Sansa had far less to say about this show than she usually did. Paul interrupted his grandmother's musings with a thwack of the paper bag against the counter. M checked the bag, made a tutting noise, and added in the famous extra roll.
"You know my son Marco is coming home from Italy next week?" M called as Sansa was leaving through the open door.
"Thanks for the extra roll, M!" was Sansa's equally famous response.
Back at the entrance of her building, Tom was still there but his attention was lent to a young man Sansa saw moving in last week. The man was slender but had a few inches on her in height. Sharply dressed. Sansa reflected, not for the first time, that many women probably found him handsome if only in a conventional way. It appeared as if Tom was giving directions to him due to his animated arm gesturing. Sansa passed by unnoticed.
She was not sure what had compelled her, but Sansa decided to take the stairs up to her floor and decidedly regretted it once she reached the halfway point between floor two and floor three.
This is what I get for sitting around painting and reading so much. I should have taken advantage of the warmer weather and spent walking it in the parks.
Despite her lecture minutes before about being too stationary, once Sansa was back in the comforts of her apartment she happily sat at her table with her sandwich and one of the two books that she was currently consuming. This was a copy of King Lear she had borrowed from the library. For nighttime, Sansa saved a book that her friend Randa gifted her. Though she was not quite so drawn to traditional romances like she was during girlhood, Sansa hungrily enjoyed these novels. She would find herself in a blacket's embrace reading to her bedside lamp late into the night about sinful pirates and fair women of the courts, a lion tamer and a trapeze artist, or gallant knights and princesses. To be bold, these books were racy and delicious.
Sansa finished the chapter she was on, which long outlasted her sandwich, and peeked at the time. It was almost a quarter past six read the clock.
I should have given him a proper time instead of 'in the evening after dinner.' But Sansa's usual professional and schedule driven self when it came to her work had been swept off when he came to her so suddenly. She was determined to do better tonight.
She went to her door and unlocked it in case he came earlier than expected. Escaping into her bedroom, Sansa exchanged her skirt and elegant blouse for a pair of loose fitting, camel trousers and a white long sleeved shirt. Sometimes Sansa felt rather masculine in her painting outfits but there was also a comfort in them. She embraced the ease the pants gave her to sit on her stool and never cared how messy they became.
Grabbing her new roses and walking past her living space, Sansa opened the door to her studio space, turned on the lights, and was welcomed. She had bought this apartment precisely because of this room. What once had been an expansive extra storage area for the building's owner, was now all Sansa's. She had struck a special deal to have it. Instead of carpets, a few long white tarps caressed the wooden floor that never complained about friendly tea spills or accidental and non accidental paint splatters. Large widows were placed on the back and right walls, while there to the left, was a door leading to the outside hallway. The wall shared with her living room was covered with a board that allowed Sansa to pin pieces to it. Easels littered the space. Canvases of mixed sizes were clumped in the corner like a crude pyramid of playing cards. There was an empty vase sitting on one of her display tables. It was a fitting home for her new pink friends.
Sansa laid out a few canvas options for The Hound just in case. One was a modest size, but more fitting for a portrait to be hung in a manor hallway, not a restaurant. The next was sizably larger and would warrant a painting a bit bigger than lifesize. Two others were exceptionally huge but truth be told, more popular amongst Sansa's wealthier customers- especially the men. Next she went about setting up the light stands she used for her portraits that asked for longer hours of her time. Her window provided more than enough sunlight for sketching and quick pieces, but she had learned her lesson otherwise. If it was a painting that would be completed within a couple of back to back sessions and was scheduled for a consistent afternoon time slot, Sansa could usually forgo the artificial light. Seeing as she had no grasp of what The Hound's timeline looked like, she played it safe and set up the lights. They had not even discussed what he wanted or more likely, did not want.
He probably has an irregular day to day like I do with his trainings and appearances and who knows what else.
She questioned the clock that hung on the wall and it told her it was six-thirty. With nothing left to prepare for The Hound, Sansa smiled at her roses patiently lounging in their vase. Grabbing a discarded sketchbook, she dragged her stool over to the blushing ladies so that she could properly worship them. During the war, when her siblings were not yet awake in the morning, Sansa would sneak out of bed to the garden with a pad and a pencil if the weather permitted. It was an escape that she selfishly took to be alone for just a small time. Flowers never fought with one another. Flowers never tossed juice on her when they were throwing a tantrum. At least during the week, the family's tutors would have them in lessons all day, but on the weekends when her mother had to be away, Sansa was in charge of all three of her younger siblings.
The clock declared five after seven now, but had kept it secret being sure Sansa would not have listened anyways. She was wrapped in a pink shroud of petals. Lost in velvet waves and valleys. Back in her family garden in stolen moments of peace- so much so that Sansa almost did not hear the rap on her door. Popping up, she abandoned the roses and wiped her palms against her pants.
With a deep breath, Sansa opened the door to him. There was the Hound, just as towering as he was the night before and just as stoney faced.
"Hello, Mr. Clegane. Please, come in," Sansa said stepping aside for him.
The Hound loomed in her doorway wearing simple black slacks with gray suspenders and a cream button down shirt. Slung across his shoulder was a leather messenger bag and a black overcoat hung over his arm. As he stepped into her apartment, Sansa watched him scan her living room to the attached kitchen and now wished she had spent her extra time tidying up. Considering what her place looked like to an outside eye, Sansa inwardly chided herself. There were stray tea cups littering her windowsill, coffee table, desk, and there were even some on the floor. When did I collect so many of those? Blankets were unfolded. A few old newspapers had not made their way to the bin yet. Some unwashed dishes were in the sink from the day before. A few pairs of high heels were discarded in the living room from when she had modeled her options with last night's gown.
Oh my goodness I look like a slob. How did I not notice all of this before? She regrettably had been too busy preparing herself for the Opera last night to care what became of her apartment during the day and she had been too hungover in the morning to have the mind to consider having someone witness this.
The Hound's shoe made a squeaking noise on the floor jarring Sansa from one dread to another. That squeak meant one thing. Rain.
"Oh no the balcony," Sansa gasped with her eyes going wide. "Mr. Bean!"
"Excuse me?" The Hound looked down at her as if she were mad.
"Um- you can leave your shoes right here by the door," she said motioning to said spot as she ran back into her bedroom for slippers. "And hang your jacket there. I will be" flopping the slippers down on the ground and sliding her feet in, "right back."
Grabbing Mrs. Lewis' keys and fast walking without looking entirely crazy (she hoped), Sansa dashed to the neighboring apartment. Once inside, Mr. Bean greeted her by chirping his insistent give-me-food-absolutely-right-now-how-dare-you-make-me-wait-meows. He was right in between her feet weaving about as Sansa slid to the balcony doors. To her relief, it must not have been a windy evening because no water had come inside as an uninvited guest. She pulled the doors shut and almost stumbled over Mr. Bean as he was always underfoot when he was hungry. Entitled like a prince. Sansa frowned at her friend.
"Mr. Bean I am so, so sorry that I forgot about you. I have no idea where my head is right now. I promise I will be back later tonight for your dinner. He is here!" Sansa bent down to kiss his head but he squirmed in her hands and mewled at her.
"No food right now. I do not want to smell like your food, Beanie and he probably already thinks I am loony. I will be back later I promise." With her foot blocking Mr. Bean, Sansa shut the door on the cat's outraged face.
Returning to her own, Sansa was cursing herself for what an embarrassing beginning the night had taken. Outbursting about the rain. Saying 'Mr. Bean' in front of another human. She was mortified. At her doorway, Sansa came in to see The Hound in the middle of her living room with one of her books open within his hands. The novel looked tiny held there and she noted how oddly out of place his hulking stature seemed amongst her pillows and blankets and places to perch. Their contrasting softness to his edges. Like a bull in a dollhouse.
She could have sworn he jumped a little when she breathed, "I am so sorry. Really. That was extremely unprofessional and rude of me, sir. To explain, I am caring for my neighbor's cat while she is gone- she lives just next door- and I had left her balcony doors open since this morning. I had no knowledge that it had been raining and I was terrified water had gotten in." Sansa Stark you are running through words again.
The Hound just raised his eyebrows at her as he placed the book back on its resting place on the coffee table.
"My studio is back through here if you would follow me please," she said hoping to pass over this blip and continue the night as smoothly as possible.
She watched him as he entered. It always felt like an intimate thing, sharing this space with outsiders, because her studio was an extension of her. It was a place where her energies could be confronted and molded into artwork both big and small. A doodle or a wall length painting, they were her and they were displayed for people's criticism or adoration equally. His eyes traveled from easel to easel, from makeshift podiums to podiums she had grown to afford, and from flowers to obscure objects she had found interesting along the way. The room screamed "Sansa" weather she wanted it to or not. Sansa had evolved beyond the phase in her life where she would have felt self conscious about her paintings and sketches. She knew they were good. Some were even great. Sansa knew that some people would appreciate her works, while others did not care for them or even just simply, art. She was okay with that. It was something she had come to terms with while she developed as an artist.
The Hound though, was still unreadable. Unlike a few of her clients or friends who had come here, he had not feigned interest or put on an overly sweet performance of admiration. He was silent. It made Sansa even more nervous.
"I laid out some canvases for you to choose from since it was not previously discussed." She watched him as he weighed the options with a frown and his hands in his pockets.
He could at least pretend that he wants to be here. Sansa could not help feeling like she had already ruined the job. That he would probably change his mind just as fast as the night before and leave.
"What do you think?" The Hound asked actually sounding unsure of himself. "We have the wall space for anything."
"Me?" Sansa almost squeaked.
No one ever asked me before. With her clients it was always 'I want this' or 'I know so-and-so did this therefore I want exactly the same thing' like Mrs. Garth. It did not matter if Sansa thought that a particular canvas was too large to hang above their fireplace, or that a family portrait would be much more impressive and distinguished if it were bigger than the size of an unfolded newspaper. When it came to making a decision like that, most people did not care for her opinion if only because they feared it would expose their lack of knowledge on the matter.
The earlier image of The Hound swinging his feet like a child flashed in her mind again. It made her smile. "If it were me sitting for my portrait, I would pick the smallest canvas because typically, that takes the artist less time to paint. Less surface area to cover means less time sitting in that chair, though mine is more comfortable than most."
The Hound grinned and questioned, "So you have had your person painted before?"
Unwillingly blushing like mad, Sansa's mind traveled back to the first few months when she had started her life in the city. When she could barely make her rent, Sansa was too proud to go to her family who had been skeptical of her moving and pursuing this life from the start. They could easily have given her the money but her ego would not allow it. They had refused to understand why she wanted to toss everything aside and move away from it all. Her old life. To make some extra money, Sansa had stood in as a live model for some classes. In some of those classes she had been as naked as her name day. Sansa was not ashamed of the work. How could she be when she was an artist herself and appreciated the value? No, Sansa had always admired those who stood on that pedestal without fear. Like they themselves were Greek Gods and Goddesses worthy to be rendered and immortalized. In her first nude session she had initially been painfully nervous, but half way through the nervousness had dissolved and had been lifted into empowerment. It was thrilling.
Sansa ran her finger tips against the nearest canvas and smiled to herself. "I have many times, actually. I must say that standing is unpleasant, but standing in an obscure pose can be downright dreadful. When I first arrived in New York, I modeled for a handful of classes at a university and for a few more established artists. In truth Mr. Clegane, I much prefer being the one doing to painting," and when she finished saw a new grin spread across his face. A grin that screamed that he knew exactly what that detail was that she had left unsaid.
The grin vanished with him as he turned from her to pace among her in progress works. She had a few portraits in progress taking up residence here until they matured and it was time for them to move on to their new homes. "You wouldn't happen to have modeled for the side of a bomber, Miss Stark?" He peered at her for a moment from behind a rather large inprogress of a banker before he vanished again. Like a tiger stalking within high grass. "No, I think I would have remembered that plane if you had," he added just above a murmur. "What stopped you from continuing to model?"
"I sold my first big painting and started making money." Sansa retorted as she picked up a canvas that was not obscenely large, but one that would command a wall nonetheless. "This one should do."
He looked her over and then the canvas she was holding and said, "Alright then."
Sansa busied herself with setting up the canvas on an easel that had a vacancy while he walked to the armchair placed under her lights. Had she really been more focused on the task at hand, she would not have been so quick to see out of the corner of her eye that The Hound had removed his messenger bag from his shoulder and set it on the chair. But she was not focused on what she was supposed to be focussing on. Not at all. She was quick to catch his movements as one suspender strap was pulled down from a heavy shoulder. And then the next. When he started unbuttoning his shirt she was openly staring at him without pretending to have her attentions elsewhere. His hands deftly worked down. Her mouth was slightly agape by the time he removed the button down and went about pulling up and off his undershirt.
Right then and there, Sansa Stark decided that newspaper photography never did an ounce of justice. It was fraudulent. A scam. Up close, she could see the details of the tattoos that adorned his pectoral and left arm. Up close, he reminded her of the actual statues of gods. Not just people who modeled in art classes but the masterpieces that she practiced mindless figure studies on at museums. But here, in her tiny apartment, he loomed bigger than the gods. He seemed to take up the entire room. More powerful here in her studio than they could ever be up in the sky or wherever they decided to go.
He raised his brows again when he saw her openingly leering at him and rolled his eyes, but that was merely out of self satisfaction. He had to know that he was impressive. This body had not won him and kept him his belt for nothing.
Oh gods is he planning to do this nude as a joke? I swear I will not survive it.
Turning to his bag, he placed his folded garments aside and shook out a black material from inside. To her relief, it was his black boxing robe that sported a simple yellow striping detail.
"Do you take me for a pin up girl too?" he asked chuckling as her face reddening even more. "No, I lost a bet to my friend Bronn. You remember him. The asshole with the big mouth from last night? I lost so he wants me in this."
"Is that why you changed your mind- why you are here tonight, Mr. Clegane? Because you lost a bet?" Sansa asked trying to mask her voice from the disappointment that was wilting inside her. Of course it is, she thought. She had not even meant to ask him the question but it slipped out before she could stop it. It was too forward. Her eyes spiraled down and followed the path a bit of green paint had dribbled onto the foot of the easel.
After a pause the Hound said, "No, that's not why I'm here."
A singular "oh" was all Sansa could produce in response. Suddenly, she felt guilty as if she had accused him of something unwarranted. Gods, she was all off kilter tonight.
After a moment dedicated to genuinely setting up her space, Sansa asked, "Is that a spare robe? If so, you can leave it with me and I will iron it. That way it is here and you do not have to worry about it getting wrinkled each time."
The Hound looked down at himself as though he was not aware that his robe had been wrinkled. He affirmed that it was a spare and that if she thought that was best, he would leave it in her care.
As Sansa studied him, she considered what would be the correct way to go about this. She was blocking off the placement of The Hound on the canvas. How much of him should be shown? Since she had chosen one of the larger canvases it would have been silly for a traditional shoulder up composition. That would create a portrait overbearingly larger than life and The Hound did not appear to be so pretentious. It only made sense therefore, to widen the view to end right at the top of his knees. The whole while she debated this, he continued his quiet observation of the room and its contents. Decided, Sansa stood up and approached him and only then, did The Hound shift his gaze to her. Pulling up another nearby stool, she placed it mirroring his own chair.
"With a canvas this size, I would recommend a composition from waist up." She stated and continued when he nodded his head. "Bring your knees a little more together like this," Sansa said as she bid him to mimic her. "Place your hands like this but make sure it is natural and comfortable for you. I am going to block this out on the canvas tonight so we know how to position you next time to ensure everything stays consistent." She watched as he looked down at his hands puzzling out what looked good but still normal. This was always entertaining for Sansa. She found that people usually struggled to consciously mock actions that are so mindless in everyday life.
Once he was settled, Sansa stood up and threw caution to the wind.
"Do you mind if I make a few adjustments?" She asked standing abruptly in front of him. When he shook his head, Sansa touched and moved his robe so that both ends laid even across his chest and gently pulled where the fabric was too loose or too tight. She could feel the weight of The Hounds eyes burning into her as she administered her alterations and she tried to ignore the warmth that radiated from him as well as the warmth on her face.
Once satisfied, she turned her attention to his face and hair. Such a sad shade of gray his eyes were. They enticed thoughts of how water and ink mixed when she cleaned bamboo brushes. How the ink would swirl around inside the water all the while dancing intertwined in a contained nothingness. She thought she could almost ignore or maybe move past the scars in time. Maybe find the beauty in the sculpted valleys and ridges and twists and turns of them. She began to run her fingers through his black hair pushing it back from his face.
"You wear your hair back when you fight but for this, I think your hair is something that is unique and should not be hidden. Same as your scars," Sansa said in almost a whisper. "They should not hide behind your hair."
Speaking this, she was sure she had stepped beyond some invisible boundary he had built because his body had drastically stiffened.
"Don't speak as if they are not hideous, girl. We both know what I look like so don't pity me and lie so prettily," The Hound basically growled.
"I mean it," Sansa tried to assure him and intended to stand her ground. "Scars are no different from birthmarks or moles. They are just a part of you and do not make you anything less."
She had immediately regretted her attempt because The Hound had grabbed her wrist almost painfully stopping her from her attentions.
"I had not taken you to be daft, Miss Stark, but maybe I was mistaken. I was not born with these like some cute chorus girl with a mole on her cheek. These were given to me. But you, an ignorant girl probably pampered her whole prissy life, compare them to a birthmark." He scowled and released her wrist from his vice.
Eyes downcast, Sansa stammered an apology and returned to her stool. She had never thought... Why was he so angry when she was only being polite?
They sat in silence as she sketched him out on the canvas. He did not once look at her as her pencil rubbed and scratched away the seconds and minutes. The words had not come out right but how could he have known that? She was angry with herself for her thoughtlessness but it soon morphed into a something akin to resentment for him reacting so cruelly. Resentment that he was, in his own way, correct to point out her ignorance.
This is a disaster.
After the silence became insufferable, Sansa spoke up keeping her voice neutral, "Do you mind if I put on a program? I believe "Escape" will be on soon."
"It's your studio. Do what you want."
Sansa rose from her stool and crossed to her mahogany radio that stood guard nestled between her shelf that housed her brushes, cleaners, and paints, and an old milk crate that held her old newspapers she used to dry brushes on. Turning it on, the machine purred the welcomed static murmurs as she went from channel to channel. A station provided by CBS was the one she had in mind. Finding it, the radio was relaying the nightly five minutes of news that was read at the end of each program. Sansa sat back down glad to have something else to take space in the room even if it was alongside their bristling emotions.
A smooth voice read an ad for Lucky Strike Cigarettes and was abruptly followed by the ominous theme music for "Escape."
"Escape! Transcribed to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure!" enthusiastically projected the voice.
Then it switched to the narrator who started it off. "You are aboard the Orient Express rushing through the European night bound for Istanbul. And in your compartment with you, a gun pointed at your head, a small mysterious stranger is about to take your life."
The episode followed Gregory Myers, the main character of the show. During this episode he ran into a cute blonde named Carol who is taking the train to her new job in Istanbul. He gallantly took her under his wing after finding out she had no money and had not eaten a decent meal in days.
The tension between the two in the room receded as the as each sentence of the adventure filled the room. Sansa was surprised to hear The Hound laugh when Gregory was knocked cold by the stories antagonist. He laughed when the journalist, Ms. Warren distracted the villainous guard with a kiss so that her friends could escape. The episode ended with Carol continuing to go on her way leaving the protagonist to wait for this next adventure.
Lulled from her attention to her canvas and the story, Sansa started in her seat when the Hound spoke up a few minutes into the big band special that had followed, "As far as "Escape" goes, that episode wasn't all bad. I think it would have been a better twist if Carol had betrayed him and been the villain though."
"The villain!" Sansa was stunned that he would think this and that he was talking to her again at all. "Why, that would have ruined the pull of unrequited love at the ending!"
"All I'm saying is that Carol was a bit of a tart," said The Hound.
Sansa scoffed. "Carol was a sweetheart! She was just trying to start a new life for herself and you have no idea what she could have been leaving behind. And!" she had paused her pencil to point it at him. "And what are you implying with "as far as "Escape" goes," Mr. Clegane?"
"Escape" is all peachy if you want a story whose main hero is duped and gets himself knocked out all the time, but Philip Marlowe, now he's the real deal. He's quick witted and can throw a punch when he needs to. He's not afraid to bend the rules. Absolutely no competition who would win in that fight," The Hound said with a smug look on his face.
"Why is it always about who can throw a better punch?"
"Greggory got himself knocked out by a doctor!"
"Only because it was a cheap shot from behind!"
"And he left Carol alone in that compartment with the guy who just had a gun pointed at them. But that doesn't matter because he was so gallent to buy her meals?"
Sansa made a face. "You have a point there I guess. I would have been so perplexed if I were Carol." The Hound made a good argument. The villain had them trapped in a sleeper car with a gun pulled. It was only because none of them could stay awake through the entirety of the night that Gregory had snatched the gun. He had then left Carol alone with this man so that he could find help. Now that Sansa thought on it, Gregory should have sent Carol off to safety to find help instead.
The serene voices of Kathryn Grayson and Mario Lanza then took the floor. It was a special that was probably promoting their new roles in "That Midnight Kiss," a technicolor film that was going to be released in a few days. Mario was introduced and his tenor notes sauntered around the room weaving between canvases and out through an open window. The night was filled with "Mamma mia che vo sape."
Sansa smirked and said, "I would wager that Gregory Myers would give Mario Lanza trouble in a brawl." Most of the other artistic types she met were not particularly brawny.
"Lanza? Oh no, I bet even Philip Marlowe would know not to lay a hand on him," said The Hound.
"And why is that?"
"Well for one, he's from Philadelphia and they are scrappy as hell down there. Two," The Hound said lifting up two fingers to which Sansa chided him to stay still. "Two," the Hound continued after resuming his set position, "is that he has mafia connections."
"Please," Sansa said waving him off, "because he is Italian? Not all Italians are in the mob you know."
"That Italian isn't but like I said, he has connections," assured The Hound.
"Have you met him?"
"Lanza? No, but I do know his agent well enough."
Kathryn Grayson was then featured in her own solo of "Can't Help Loving That Man" before the two singers performed a duet for "They Didn't Believe Me." Their voices together were serene in the way only a man and woman's voice can pair. Sansa thought to ask Margaery if she had met Kathryn Grayson yet. Her friend said she met Frank Sinatra at a bar once and he bought her a drink. That he was smaller than she thought he would be but that they all were. That did not take away from his charm though.
"Have you ever been on a sleeper train?" The Hound then asked her as the orchestra contributed with "Autumn in New York."
"A few times when I was a girl. Before the War my family actually traveled to Philadelphia from Portland. I was so little but I remember pretending I was riding on a circus train with the lions and elephants and that we could go anywhere. The world was open for adventure and I had a ticket. I told my baby sister this and she started tossing food into the other sleeper cars 'for the elephants and seals.'" Sansa laughed recalling this memory. She wished to see her reckless sister again desperately. It had been too long and New York could use some of her icy fire.
"Sounds like she was good to have around if you were going to Philadelphia."
Could The Hound be smiling?
"Have you? Been on a sleeper train, I mean." Sansa inquired even though she was positive he had to have been with all the traveling he must do.
"I used to for when I train out in California or when I have a match out there or down south. I don't use the sleeper car too often though. Recently I've started driving more."
"Why is that?"
"I am too damn big for the bed. Plus driving allows me to stop and sleep on a real mattress."
Sansa could not help but to giggle at this, imagining him with his feet hanging off the tiny beds and bumping his head on the ceiling.
The conversation lulled into a comfortable silence only to be interrupted by a comment here or there about the song playing or an item from the news. The Hound no longer wore the scowl on his face that had placed itself there earlier in the night. Rather, he looked deep in thought with his eyes in his lap. He really was doing a much better job at remaining in the same position and staying still than Sansa had imagined he would. Maybe it was the military training that attributed to it. She had not considered this but the hypothesis made sense. They all brought back queer quirks with them when they- if they, returned.
A nagging thought from the back of her mind urged her to eye the clock. It told her the night was nearing ten and Sansa was thrown by how quickly the hours had slipped away.
"Oh my goodness, I just caught the time! I promise I did not intend to keep you so late, Mr. Clegane I apologize."
"Don't fuss yourself… or maybe do." The Hound slowly stood up from his sitting place and added, "I think my ass fell asleep."
The Hound removed his robe and handed it to Sansa. Without thought, she held it tight to her chest as she turned from him while he clothed. She did not want to be caught staring again. She would remain professional and make sure the night ended on a good note. He stepped around her with his bag slung across his shoulder once more to look at the progress she had made. With the time they had spent, Sansa had successfully managed to render The Hound's likeness with a little too much detail. No matter how many portraits she had under her belt, Sansa always found herself carried away with the initial sketching. It was easy to become caught up in a person.
She saw what could be read as approval on his face this time. "And we have to make sure I sit exactly like that next time?" he asked her.
"Yes," Sansa told him simply. Mario Lanza was beginning to sing "I Know, I Know, I Know," in the background mated almost painfully with romantic strings. Sansa could feel the start of a blush creeping onto her face.
Looking down on her now The Hound softly questioned, "And when is next time going to be?"
He was standing so close to her again. Sansa needed to move around to clear her head of the fuzziness that was slinking in there somehow. Rid herself of the fuzziness that was spreading to her stomach. She grabbed her long braid in her hands to give her something to busy herself with now lacking the pencil.
"My next opening is Tuesday evening," Sansa told him. He followed behind her as she made her way to show him out. Tomorrow, Sansa decided it would be a day off to clean her apartment and prepare for painting Mrs. Garth's goddaughter the following morning. Monday nights Sansa and Margaery always went out to dinner to recap their weekends and plan for whatever was coming next.
The Hound shook his head and shifted his feet. "No, no I don't think that works for me."
Sansa went to her desk to consult her scheduling book and asked, "Wednesday at Noon?"
"I can only stay for a couple of hours." He ran a hand through his hair.
"Perfect. That is just enough time for me to make some practical progress and for your rear to fall asleep again I think," she playfully replied.
He actually smiled at this. "Oh I will make sure I leave before that happens then."
She followed him to the door. As he put his shoes on his feet and retrieved his jacket, Sansa stepped into her slippers and grabbed the neighboring apartment keys again.
"I should feed Mr. Bean before I get in more trouble with him." Sansa said awkwardly and not sure if she should shake his hand before he left her.
She shut the door behind as they both stepped out into the hall. Mr. Bean's door was on the route to the elevator The Hound would be riding to leave so they walked the short distance together. The Hound nodded his head at her when she stopped at the neighboring door and meant to continue his walk down the hallway when Sansa hastily chirped, "Mr. Clegane?"
He paused his steps to turn his body back to face her in the doorway. And again Sanas felt almost crowded by how large he was and even more so that his mere presence loomed over her. It invaded her space and threatened to overpower her. She must remember to breathe.
"I want to apologize for what I said earlier. For what I said about scars and moles and birthmarks. It was wrong of me, I realized. I had not been thoughtful or had considered how rude my comment could be without proper care- What I am trying to say is that it came out wrong and I only meant to assure you that …"
The man in front of her closed his eyes as he said, "You don't have to worry yourself with the feelings of a mean dog like me. It is easily forgotten, girl." The Hound looked tired for the first time that night when he spoke. There was a hint of regret in his voice that she did not miss. For the first time that night, Sansa wondered if he had regretted his words too.
"So I will be seeing you at noon this Wednesday then, Mr. Clegane?" Sansa affirmed feeling suddenly lighter. Her breath quickening in her chest at the thought.
"Are you always this formal, Miss Stark?" The way he said her name was like a mocking version of how Mrs. Gath's footman had introduced her. Like he had been there to see how absurd it was.
"Only with those I am trying to seal a commission with," she flung back looking him in the eyes more sure of herself.
A laugh that was more bark escaped him. This was not the first time he seemed to find humor is her words that night. It was strange to come from him, this monster of a man who had always translated as heartless in the papers.
"You want to know why I changed my mind?" he asked, now very much serious and without a trace of laughter on his features. It was the question that she had been asking herself over and over again throughout the day. She could not for the life of her come to a conclusion as to why he seemed to have a change of heart. He continued, "Last night, I could not imagine a woman like you would want to bother yourself painting someone like me. But I changed my mind and came to you because I knew that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I never saw you again."
Sansa was speechless. It was the only word for it. To her annoyance she could not keep her answers simple or strictly professional throughout the evening when he asked her questions, but here, now, after he had spoken this, Sansa found herself out of words and her mind a blank slate. Like the air had rushed in around her and stopped it all. This was not one of the many explanations she had imagined.
"So yes, Miss Stark, you will be seeing me at noon on Wednesday." His eyes were burning her again as they explored her features. She felt the hard door press up against her back. It were as if they were in a different hallway again under those dim lights. Only them.
Until Mr. Bianchi coughed at the other end of the hall.
When Sansa still had nothing to say, The Hound turned away to leave her and continued no his way to the elevator. The soft thumping of his heavy feet and the subtle swing of his bag with him. A man who maybe was not what she thought he was. Possibly more.
Sansa heard herself voice out, "Goodnight, Sandor."
"Goodnight, Sansa," was murmured with what sounded like the hint of a smile.
Sansa watched him round the corner to disappear and only then did she unlock the door to find Mr. Bean sitting a few feet inside illuminated in the moonlight. Like Beanie and the Moon had been eavesdropping.
"You heard that, right?" Sansa asked the cat.
