her office is dark,  the door kept ajar to welcome in firefly - budded cold  :    thereâs a rusty brick she keeps around just for this,  nudged forward little by little,  a wind slipping into their jumpers and between their fingers    (    charlie is not awash with moonlight     ...     she consumes it until it lights up the edges of her fingertips,  until she is nothing but a faint flicker of salvation     ).     â  no,  â    she says, carefully,  a blank slate of a blank voice.   she flicks a smile in his direction  :    she is not a charismatic powerhouse tonight.  there is something cold that lives in her gaze,  militant in its examination of the pictures.   CHARLIE IS RARELY A BUSINESSWOMAN.   she is a mask slipped clinically into place,  a woman staring into a mirror staring into a mirror staring into a mirror.    she echoes.     â  these are good.  theyâre really based on my work?  â    she cocks her head towards him,  refusing a smile.  the sole arbitrator of her attention     ...     she worships creation quietly.     â  you must be very talented.  â
