He wonders why she doesn't do it outside. Maybe she has an aversion? Credence's mind races, but all that's happening is his thoughts tracing back to the beautiful fairytale about a princess pricking her thumb on a spinning wheel. He wonders if Margaery knows that witchcraft like that exists.
He wonders if Margaery knows that witches and wizards aren't bad. Not really, not like what he's been taught all his life.
Margaery--Margaery, a strange name to go with strange mannerisms, outside and singing despite the cold, doing work despite the temperature. He feels a slight pang of envy, too--he wants to be that brave, that bold, that brazen. Instead, he hunches down on himself and says Margaery over in his mind a few times, just to commit it to memory.
"Credence. It's nice to meet you, miss." That's genuine, even if his gaze never leaves the wheel and never flicks to her face. "What if you moved everything inside?"
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He wonders if Margaery knows that witches and wizards aren't bad. Not really, not like what he's been taught all his life.
Margaery--Margaery, a strange name to go with strange mannerisms, outside and singing despite the cold, doing work despite the temperature. He feels a slight pang of envy, too--he wants to be that brave, that bold, that brazen. Instead, he hunches down on himself and says Margaery over in his mind a few times, just to commit it to memory.
"Credence. It's nice to meet you, miss." That's genuine, even if his gaze never leaves the wheel and never flicks to her face. "What if you moved everything inside?"
It seems like the logical choice.