I avoid her face and instead examine the desk.
All papers and folders are stacked neatly, there is not a single pen lying around. The white computer is polished.
I don't see any pictures or personal belongings. The only sign of personality is a bouquet of flowers inside a crystal vase.
I can feel Prisiclla's eyes lying on me. She is sitting in the tall chair, her hands folded on her lap.Â
We've been sitting like this for a little while and I'm wondering whether the Mayor is waiting for me to say something.
But I don't have anything to say.
Well, except for 'Let me go!' and 'Where is Isabella?'. So I might as well stay silent.
She takes a sip from her tea without looking away. The filigrane porcelain cup looks so out of place surrounded by all this try-hard futurism. Like Priscilla is about to have afternoon tea with Darth Vader.
