The knitting needles click quietly and peacefully, audible even where the boy listening sits, silent and unmoving in the shadowy rafters. The soft grey of his clothing blends seamlessly with the shadow.
He listens, to the click of the needles, and the two voices that sometimes overwhelm that sound. One soft and pretty, a lilting Welsh voice, though the listener is unaware of what or where Wales is. The other confident and young-sounding, and not, to those that listen right, quite human in the intonations, the sibilance on certain syllables.
The woman's voice is kind, her words innocuous, it would seem, but they bend the second voice so easily and perfectly. A tone of command so complete it cannot be heard, only noticed in the way the second voice obeys it's whims, though it may try without even realising that it is fighting.
The boy in the shadows can tell.
He knows something is happening, and he knows he can't stop it. The captive would try to stop him, if the gentle voice pushed him hard enough.
So he listens and waits until he knows he can do something, which is all he ever does, here, really.
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He listens, to the click of the needles, and the two voices that sometimes overwhelm that sound. One soft and pretty, a lilting Welsh voice, though the listener is unaware of what or where Wales is. The other confident and young-sounding, and not, to those that listen right, quite human in the intonations, the sibilance on certain syllables.
The woman's voice is kind, her words innocuous, it would seem, but they bend the second voice so easily and perfectly. A tone of command so complete it cannot be heard, only noticed in the way the second voice obeys it's whims, though it may try without even realising that it is fighting.
The boy in the shadows can tell.
He knows something is happening, and he knows he can't stop it. The captive would try to stop him, if the gentle voice pushed him hard enough.
So he listens and waits until he knows he can do something, which is all he ever does, here, really.