He decides to wait half the day, after declaring her death. That gives her plenty of time to change her mind. A small test, but an important one. Perhaps, he considers, he is making even these last hours more difficult for her than he has to, but after all he's done .. really, what is this to compare?
Walking into the kitchen he eases off the inquisitor's leather gloves. A last meal. Were not all prisoners granted the privilege?
There is a saucepan still on the stove top; it has been there for a week. He's been making her porridge with a handful of flour, water instead of milk. Served stone cold. It had taken him a week to get the recipe the same as he remembered. Every day he serves her dinner he remembers when she did the same for him, and every day he hates himself more.
He lifts the lid, and blinks. He must have lost track of the days: the pot is scraped empty.
He thinks of making more, but realises he can't bring himself to do so.
He takes out the skillet and the small block of butter. One slice of bread and an egg. His hands, to his dull surprise, are shaking. (But then, he's been sharing her meals.) The motions of habit steady him, and the inquisitor's brow furrows in concentration.
bare feet quiet on the stone floor. beautiful hair tangled over narrow shoulders. a woman's sympathy at the sight of scars, a child's delight at a treasured memory returned, and how she reconciled those two he's never understood. he can't remember being young at all, anymore.
voices from inside a bright house, curtains safely drawn and windows shut. she'd asked Deitrich more than once why they should both make eggs like they did, and more than once he'd evaded the question. a loyal man, if not always the wisest. she wasn't the first fugitive he'd protected.
The eggshell, two empty crowns, is crushed stickily in his hand. He has the sudden urge to throw the skillet to the ground and discard this meal also, to just go back into that cell and beg forgiveness and to hell with all he'd planned. He can't breathe. He's claustrophobic inside the inquisitor's skin and stumbling back against the table he tears it from his face with both hands, shredding it, flinging the remnants to the flagstones.
V bows his head. His hands are covered in eggshell and broken curls of latex. The mask is ruined. He'll have to change the suit too. Deitrich would have been cross - the silver tie was one of his. Or had been.
The faint scent of burning jars him from thoughtlessness. He takes the skillet from the heat, gently lifts the bread out onto a plate. And stops.
What was he thinking? He can't serve her this. He stands a minute in near hysterical indecision, undone by the mere sight of the butter congealing around the curve of the egg.
At length he unearths the blender and pulverises the whole thing.
Much later, after cleaning up the mess in the kitchen and changing his clothes, he goes to find her. She's curled up but her back is straight, and she's facing the door. In the corner, the tin plate lies empty. Small comfort.
"It's time." The orderly's mask pulls at his mouth. He can't remember the accent, he's sure he's getting it wrong.
In one grimy fist she holds the letter, tightly but carefully, mindful of its fragility. "I'm ready."
He takes a deep breath: one last test - "Look, all they want is one little piece of information, anything." His voice almost breaks.
"Thankyou," there is nothing left of the child in her now. "But I'd rather die behind the chemical sheds."
Oh, Evey. Can't you see I've already killed you?
"You have no fear then. You're completely free."
He turns on his heel. It's only by the barest of margins that he manages not to run.