Her eyes flutter closed and he can see she is falling into a memory. It is a secretive smile, the kind meant to be hidden behind a hastily drawn veil. The kind that suggests that sometimes, just sometimes, women know more then they let on. He holds a hand up to stop her. She straightens her shoulders under his attentive scrutiny and folds her hands upon her lap, waiting for him to continue.
She has become a bit hard to follow, speeding up her speech and dropping consonants as if they were hot pokers. She shrugs. I mean, she knew the Djinn would do the right thing, yeah? Sees in the fervent glow of her eyes the depth of her ebullient trust in this strange, and frankly frightening, magical madman. He despairs of her then. Despairs for her; for he sees clearly now what her words, hampered by the twin barriers of language and culture, had not been able to convey before.
And that, he knows with a sad certainty, spells her fate. She loved him as she should have loved a man, a normal man. Even that worthless pile of camel dung from her home village who thought himself worthy of being her consort would have been a better choice, a safer choice. To love an agent of mayhem…one of the great, untamable forces of the universe…it was unthinkable…impossible.
One might as well be enamored with a flit of wind or an errant ocean wave. But no, those metaphors were far too benign. To love the sandstorm that barrels down upon king and commoner alike, bringing violent stinging death to all in its path - that was a more apt comparison.
Or a maelstrom, whose riptides drag vessels inexorably. He too sees that inevitable, swirling doom, feels it draw his pretty little dove into its clutches and hold her fast.
Her fate would be almost too terrible to behold, but like those imagined sailors, he remains transfixed by the power of her tale. Can do nothing but continue to watch her play out her self-destruction. As if she were a siren and he entranced by the very sound of her voice. Trusted him with her life. And if…and if he thought that she needed to lose her life to help save the world, well…she trusted him to make that decision on her behalf.
Every time. She raises her arms, palms held flat and facing up before her, as if weighing two options. She turns away from him. He sees that she is searching for an answer and wonders why she thinks that she might find it there. He never notices the slaves himself, they have become an intrinsic part of the background.
No doubt he would not be able to tell this particular one from the next, though he had likely attended upon his master in these chambers for years. The palm fan in his grip dips and rises, its rhythm never failing. Perhaps they understood that only gods can know the true value of the human heart.
He blinks at her, then laughs. He cannot help himself, he laughs aloud. She beams a smile in return, knowing for once that he is not laughing at her, at her poor manners or atrocious translation, but with her.
He considers her. It is an interesting question. Women, in his experience are not much interested in philosophy. The women of his own lands were only taught so much of religion as to allow them to follow the teachings. The higher questions were left to the men, as the divine heads of their households. But she has put him in a good humor, and in response he decides to oblige her.
Shock can be read plainly on her face, before it dissolves into thought. They always seemed kind of cute. He shakes his head in disbelief. To think she has so little knowledge of the world! And with such naive ideas about appearances, no wonder she became enamored with a demon being.
She trusted from the beginning that he would not harm her because he seemed to her a regular person. Sometimes evil hides itself behind an exquisite mask, the better to draw in its prey. He catches his breath, hearing the harshness of his own words, and pinches his lip between sharp teeth.
He looks away from the girl so that he will not see her questioning gaze. These are thoughts he should not be having. Thoughts he promised himself he would not have again. Thoughts of beauty dancing unveiled before him, dancing only for him. She pauses, noticing the intricate marks decorating the back of her hand, and stops. He sees them too, clearly now as her hand is held before her. The sepia whorls and spirals mimicking organic growth, the twirl and intertwining of tiny-leaved vines.
Images of untamed life tangled between her fingers. The repeated image of a circle twisted upon itself to form two teardrops, touching at their tips. A figure of eight, flatted somewhat end to end.
He recognizes the symbol, though it is not one often used in this form of artwork. He knows not its origins the Ionians claim its derivation, but then they claim responsibility for everything if allowed to talk at length , but he knows the meaning ascribed to it. In mathematics, it is the number without end; in art, the point at which all lines converge.
It can mean life eternal, as well, that existence which transcends the passing of the mortal form. He has heard his court philosophers debate its existence. Personally, he believes it something only the One God may know for certain, like the weight of a human heart; its true substance and not the base flesh the Agypt ripped from the chests of their dead before sending them off to their judgment. It must have been her choice to put it there, his beautiful dove.
No idle palace woman with a busy paint pot would think to include it in the design. It is an interesting choice. A good choice, he thinks, and recalls that, in some of the Eastern lands, the decoration of palms is a part of the marriage ceremony. He wonders if his dove knows that. Doubts it. For all her travels, she seems to have led a sheltered life, so little knowledge has she of the world and its ways.
He wonders why she would choose such an esoteric marking to adorn herself with. He thinks of the Djinn, and believes he understands. Her hand drops. She follows its slow progress until it floats to rest upon her knee.
Her penitence is heartfelt and endearing. Chapter 6: Chapter 6. It was a hazard of the job. She expected better from Earthlings and had half a mind to complain to the American government. She felt certain there was something in their laws about false imprisonment. Or was that a speedy trial? The point was that there was one place in the entire universe where she was supposed to feel safe well, outside of the TARDIS, that was , and here it had turned out not to be.
Bloody alien with his insistence that butlers were really orcs in disguise. Bloody time machine that never landed them where it was supposed to. Donna stomped said heels into the stone floor, before kicking off her flats and pulling her legs up into a sitting position on the bed. She leaned back until her shoulders rested against the cold, seamless wall and stared at the blank surface opposite her.
It was covered in a patterned duvet and there was a feather pillow at its head encased in crisp white linen. The whole room was very clean, no dust or cobwebs could be discerned. The garbage bin set next to the nightstand had been emptied of its contents before she came. It did was certainly curious that the cell had a nightstand, but no toilet. It seemed almost more like a guest room than a prison room. But then, what guest could be comfortable wedged between the cold stone walls of this tiny space?
Donna looked at the door. It was locked. She knew it was locked because she had spent the first twenty minutes of her imprisonment trying to jimmy it open with a hairpin. Eventually she had to give up and admit that seeing it done on the telly was no substitute for actually knowing how to pick locks. The latch slid back with a thud and the door squeaked open.
A thin young woman in tight jeans and an even tighter t-shirt entered the cell. She had bright red hair, too short and flyaway to be considered a bob, but just a little too long for a classic pixie cut.
Bright, intelligent eyes lit her elfin features. A silk scarf was looped around her throat like a choker and tied into a little rosette that rested at the angle of her neck and shoulder. The woman strode forward, her hand extended in a friendly manner. It was the sort of comment she thoroughly agreed with.
Seeing her smile, Rose relaxed a bit and pulled her coltish legs up to sit Indian style on the mattress. The cute guy with the suit and the sexy hair? Donna snorted in amusement. No, we must be speaking of different people.
Donna snorted again. Donna colored involuntarily. Personally, she thought it her best feature. She turned slightly away from the other woman and self consciously tucked in a lock that had come free at her opposite temple. Rose primped for a moment at her own coiffure. Donna sensed that, for the first time since she entered the room, her new acquaintance was uncomfortable with the subject.
Something in her demeanor must have alerted Rose to the reversal in her thoughts. Donna quirked her mouth in response and shook her head slightly in denial.
She liked the girl, she really did, but these people had dragged the Doctor away from her…and that made them her enemy. For now, anyway. Rose sighed. I mean, here you are locked up in the Cloisters; probably the least comfortable accommodation in all of the Woodlands. And I was sent here to interrogate you.
Rose tossed her hands with an air of defeat. She looked away and crossed her arms. Rose reached around behind her and brought the pillow forward. Arranging in on her crossed knees, she leaned forward and planted her elbows in its puffy surface. Resting her chin in her hands, she appraised Donna carefully.
A woman showed up just a few days ago; red hair like yours, but younger and. Much better. Donna paused a moment, wondering if she should prompt the girl. Ask for particulars of what happened to her friends. Instead, Donna found herself going back to the circumstances of her own predicament.
Donna filed that piece of information away for later. Rose considered her for a moment. Donna could almost feel her eyes as they roamed over her form. Dated more than a few. Was engaged to one once. Very good. Maniacal nannies. Homicidal bees. Whatever that thing was that had scared the pants off of the Doctor on Midnight.
And heck, I was engaged to one once, too. Was halfway down the aisle, actually. Bloody wanker. But I know she loves me, and I love her.
That reminds me! Squeezing her hand into a front jeans pocket, she pulled out a number of small objects in a little plastic baggie. There was a needle and a tiny plastic tube. Nothing overtly threatening.
Donna considered a moment. Traveling the universe had taught her never to take anything anyone said at face value. She had meant what she said. Rose was not bad.
Donna was all but certain of it, and she wanted to trust her. Every instinct told her she should trust this woman. It was only the situation they had been thrown into apparently against both their wills which was forcing her not to. Donna bit her lip, and decided. While she continued to thank Donna and apologize for the inconvenience and the tiny room and the like, Donna got started with the pricking. A sharp jab at her pointer finger brought a ruby-like bubble of blood to the surface of her fingerprint.
Scraping her finger against the edge of the tube, she allowed several drops to slide along its plastic sides and pool at the little pointed bottom. She popped her finger into her mouth and held the now capped tube out towards Rose.
Rose turned on her heel and headed for the door. Stopping with her hand on the knob, she turned back over her shoulder and regarded Donna with a friendly look. Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Her back no longer hunches when she genuflects, and he thinks that it must be because someone in his household has finally taught her to do it properly.
Either that or she has finally gotten over her particularly foreign dislike of bending her will to that of her superiors. Like as not, it is a bit of both. He smiles to think of her frail northern frame adapting to the sweet desert climate of his homeland, and bids her rise.
She pushes herself up, palms pressed flat against the smooth tile beneath her, and levels her head to face him without disturbing the exacting placement of her veil. Ah yes, his dove has learned, and if she cannot prevent the jewel like beads of sweat from making a coronet of her brow, she makes no movement to swipe them away.
The sweet and spicy scent of her fragrance floats about the chamber, blown about by the slave boys, busy as always at their fanning. Her lips have been touched with carmine, adding just enough color to darken them from their normal dusky pink hue to the color of ripening plums. He wonders, absently, if the women sharing her captivity have offered her these luxuries of their own volition, or whether she has traded for them.
The thought of her bartering with the other women like a common bazaar peddler darkens his brow. What would she even have to trade? Extra food, perhaps? Certainly, she does not need the suppers prepared for her when each night she shares in his own feast. He breathes slowly and takes in her fine appearance.
She is dressed in green tonight, the dull green of the harbor waters on a cloudy day. Her hands rest against her thighs, palms cupped upwards like a lotus. It is the position of a servant at ease, and he wonders who has taught her that as well; perhaps the same individuals who have helped her to improve her Arabic over these long months. The accent and intonation are still atrocious, but she rarely misses a tense nowadays, and finds the need to retreat into her own language less and less every day.
He half smiles, to put her at her ease. However, he cannot help but again think of her interacting with the other women. He imagines them squabbling like hens, screeching their laughter and clucking their sympathy from where they perched upon silken pillows.
Ducking their heads with alacrity to catch the most recent whispers of palace rumor. Surely, too, they must peck at one another and fight for what little favors life in the bridal chamber may provide. It is no place for a little half-tame dove, that is certain, and his brow creases again with the thought. Perhaps he should move her into her own apartments. She should not presume, of course, to know his mind, but then he supposes that in this instance she is correct.
No doubt his countenance has betrayed his emotions. Still he cannot quite retrieve his hunger, and he wonders if she has eaten this eve. She shakes her head in denial, and he is unaccountably pleased to see it. Smiling softly he leads the way. The guards at the main entrance raise their pikes from their crossed positions blocking the doorway as he and his dove pass the threshold. Without batting an eyelash, the soldiers fall into step behind his dove as the group makes its way over the lush carpeted floor towards the palace gardens.
This hall is particularly well decorated, as it is often used in entertainment of dignitaries. One cannot go ten steps without passing some new and beautiful work of art, or a well polished spoil of war.
Shields gleam between vibrant tapestries and tall vases filled with fresh flowers. It is summer, and flowers are plentiful in the lands touched by the great rivers. Outside the borders of the flood all is sand and desolation. Here within the walls of the palace, flowers bloom in abundant profusion the whole year round.
He walks beneath an arch flanked on both sides with Doric columns and painted along its curve in a checkered pattern of blood red alternating with the fine yellow sandstone beneath. Beyond is the night garden, and a freedom of sorts. A fresh breeze skims swiftly over the high walls and hurries past, to skip into the corridor behind him.
His dove gasps, and he knows it is not all form the sudden chill. He cannot help but turn, turn to see the look of unadulterated awe spread across her features. He wonders when it last was she tasted open air and feels a twinge of sadness to think that he has inadvertently kept such joy from her.
He will not make that mistake again. Turning, he begins to make a circuit of the winding garden path and his dove follows on silent feet. She thinks a moment, obviously trying to remember exactly where in her tale she had left off. It was, he notes, a crucial moment. The Djinn had only just determined that the enemy they had been focused upon was not that which he had originally thought, but rather was his ancient foe the Daleks. He has been forced to adopt her word for that strange race.
It appears to have no direct translation and its harsh, foreign rasp grates upon his ear in a manner that seems strangely appropriate to the species. He had asked her to describe them, at first, but was baffled by her garbled explanation.
They could not step up, but they could fly. They had not hands, but used weapons of great destruction. Beyond the terror inducing squawk of their voices and their single blue eye that glowed with a lust to kill like some bloodthirsty Cyclops out of legend, he had.
He had asked her to draw one and provided her with parchment and charcoal. She had made a valiant attempt, but her drawing came out looking like nothing more than the lighthouses that stood sentinel over the rocky shores of the great sea.
He burned the parchment and assigned a drawing instructor to attend upon her during her daylight hours. And so when the Djinn told her to enter the Box, she did. Without question. She tried to open them, but they were locked. She pounded on the door, yelling for the Djinn. Begging him to tell her what was going on. She turned around and the Djinn was there. And it was talking to her. She pauses, and he allows her the time to compose herself and return to her former mode of speaking.
He told her there was no way she could save him and that she had to save herself. He said that the Box would take her home, back to her own time and that she should just leave it somewhere to…to rot. The Box had been her home and, from what his dove had told him, seemed almost to have been a friend to the erstwhile heroine. She tried everything she could think of, but nothing worked, and before she knew it she was standing outside of her home and her mother and Mickey were hugging her. She stops, comes to a halt in the middle of the walkway and bites at her lower lip.
She releases it, leaving an indentation that is slightly lighter in color than the rosy-hued surrounding flesh. She looks at him, eyes wide and innocent in the starlight.
Not without knowing what happened to her friends. Not with knowing the Djinn was still out there somewhere…some when, I mean…fighting for survival…fighting for the future of…. She is no orator, no master of fine words, and she does not know how to frame this situation properly. She looked at the heart of the Box and saw….
As if taken by a sudden notion of escape, she steps quickly away from the path and towards the marble centerpiece of the garden.
He thinks to call out to her, but decides instead to follow in her footsteps. Stopping short of the fountain, she turns her face to the heavens. She spins in place, taking in the entire star-specked dome.
Her arms flare out at her sides as if pulled by the silken twirl of her verdant robes. He stands back, giving her this moment; giving her the room to enjoy the night sky. Eventually, she returns her gaze to earth. All the little bits in between. She saw herself leave the message, scattering it across the universe for her own benefit. She lowers herself to sit on the edge of the fountain.
Looking over one shoulder, she glances down at her own reflection. Behind it, grey clouds encircle the bright globe of the moon. Such a beautiful song. He never saw the single tear which had so marred the watery image. There is no sound for some time afterwards. Eventually, he holds out a hand to her. Surprised by his action, she does not even think of the breached proprieties when she reaches up to take it.
He pulls her gently to her feet and leads her back to the path. There, the sound of hissing torches lining the palace walls brings them out of the past and back to reality. He has never heard of either place. She rubs her hands up her arms until they meet the cuffs of her short sleeves. She slows to a stop and he wonders if she will take off into the garden again. She is examining the soft green fabric of her slippers. He stares at the proffered top of her head. Beneath the filmy veil, he can see the dark part separating the gold of her hair.
Her face lifts to his, and a deep sigh fills her voice. He blinks. Not exactly. Point is that when Rose could see again, after all the light he…the Djinn was still standing there, but…he was…someone else. He was skinnier. And brown eyes and new teeth. Plus he was suddenly an incurable chatterbox. He has a thousand questions, but he holds them back. She sees them anyways, ghosting in his eyes, and she does not continue. She stands there in the torchlight, rubbing the goose bumps from her forearms and waiting for him to arrange his thoughts.
The change of face is of little note. The djinni, it is well known, are masters of disguise. They could appear as a great monarch, or a beautiful woman, or even a lowly ass should the fancy take them. But to die and come back, that truly was an accomplishment! In the stories, djinni never died, but were tricked into submission or into self-imposed exile. How scared she must have been, his little dove, how confused.
He sees it now in the seemingly brave tilt of her chin, in the way she holds her. He knows what it is to see people change; to have ones you thought you knew so well turn to strangers before your eyes. It is true that all who live wear a mask before friends and foe alike, but it is only the former who are ever deceived into thinking they know the true person beneath. He abhors such deception, despises treachery above all things, and it is one of the reasons he finds his dove so enthralling.
Whatever she has told him, whatever fantasies she has woven with words like fine tapestry, he has always believed that she tells the truth. There is no veil which shades her true features. She has no use for one, and he finds her fresh faced honesty entrancing.
He continues down the path, folding his arms behind him in contemplation. She pads along, a half step behind him. Then, too, the Great Lion was said by his followers to have died at the hands of traitors, only to rise again.
It is an unexpected emotion. He is reminded somewhat fondly of when she first came to his chambers, trembling and afraid, with not even the ability to ask, in his own tongue, after his intentions. In the pale light from the gibbous moon trickling through the crooked branches of the olive trees, her hair is silver, trending to white. Her face is ghostly pale, but the barest bloom of pink colors her cheeks. She is of a more healthy pallor now, her skin having taken on the color of cream in coffee and no longer peeling from the ravages of his harsh southern sun.
Her strides match his own and she walks with a high held head and a confident manner. She has grown, he sees, since their first tentative audience, and he finds himself unaccountably touched at seeing how she has thrived in his palace.
No longer the frail orchid blossom wilting on his chamber floor, she has come into her own. She certainly is worthy of the moniker of her heroine. The delicate rose. The hearty rose. The beautiful rose.
He thinks for a moment, that he would like to see her decked in such flowers. To see her ivory limbs and flaxen hair, draped naked and languorous over a bower strewn with petals. Her pink lips pressed reverently to a half opened bud, her marble fingers wrapped around its prickly stem. But no, now was not the time for such thoughts.
Now was the time for stories and strolls in the cool evening air; for the soft splashing music of the fountain and the whistle of night breezes through the trees. Heat and fire and passion had their place, but not in the courtyard; though certainly none would reprimand him for violating its peaceful sanctity. Too, she has asked him a question, and he feels compelled to reply.
But back before the coming of the. Emperor there were many travelers between the worlds, and the old stories are still told.
He knows her so well, his dove. So well already. He would know her better soon. Know her in all her bountiful glory. As soon as her story was done. She has turned towards him, listening, and he is amused at this, the reversal of their roles. He has become the storyteller and she the rapt attendee. She is silent, and he hears the soft scuffing noises of their slippers against the flagstones. We have thought them lost, these many centuries past, yet I have heard tell it was once a wondrous place.
Her brow is creased again with the effort of her thought, and the effect is not appealing. He shall mention it to his harem matron, it seems someone must still teach the poor creature how to school her features to pleasantness.
Women, he muses, are not naturally given to deep thought. His dove is an unfortunate exception and it has left its ravages in the barely discernable wrinkles on her silken face.
He cannot have her wandering the palace grounds thus, looking like nothing more than one of his scholars working at some complex theorem. No, I mean that I read it. A long time ago, in the land from which I originally came. With her attention so obviously elsewhere, she slips unconsciously into her speech of origin again.
About these kids who find this wardrobe that, like, takes them to another world. She turns away, slightly, letting her glance flow like a wisp of night air around the fragrant reaches of the patio. All of it? Hi guys! I'm very committed to getting into strategy consulting but got no offers this year so was just w….
Hi All, I'm set to start business school upcoming August and have set my eyes on entering strategy consulting MBB post consulting. Wanted practical insights on: 1 What is the dirty reality of entering a consultancy at 35? Considering most 35 year olds will be partners - considering the…. I have a proven track record and I believe I can increase my income dramatically.
I didn't get a return offer from an internship. I think other interns were better and I may have not done as well in some of the social aspects.
I get that you need to live it to know, but what motivates you guys to work those 90 hour weeks and keep going? Would you recommend a college student to go for it? When it comes to the rating process, what do they look for and how can I stand out within my first year. Any particular boutique firms too? Thank you. November Consulting. Leaderboard See all. Rank: Baboon Log in or register to post comments. Consulting Case Interview Course. Crowdsourced from over , members. Trusted by over 1, aspiring consultants just like you.
Learn more. Comments 23 Add comment. Investment Banking Interview Case Samples. How much? Investment Banking Interview Questions and Answers. Best Response. Apr 22, - pm. Private Equity Case Interview Samples. Learn more Suggested Resource Learn More. Who is Voctor? Who is Cheng? Many thanks. Financial Modeling Courses. Oct 19, - pm. Hedge Fund Pitch Template. Worth every penny.
Private Equity Interview Questions. I found it useful. Investment Banking Interview Brainteasers. Hi everyone, I currently use LOMS and am finding it useful; at the end of the day, nothing trumps live case prep with a few partners.
Best of luck to all! Hedge Fund Pitch for Interviews. Bora B. CO Rank: Chimp 1 Feb 3, - pm. Hey, I would like to practice some cases PM me anytime suits you. HF Interview Questions. Leave this field blank. So, several candidates are given the same case. The eight cases covered in the program span a variety of different industries. Clients include a moving company, an Internet company, and a steel company.
There are a mix of different case types, such as profitability and market entry cases. There is a focus on covering the types of cases you are most likely to see in your interviews.
If you think about the price of the program this way, the price may not seem as high. Convenient Format to Learn Case Interviews. It sure was expensive, but I found it far more helpful than Case in Point, or the vault guides.
Very good for background knowledge and just starting out. I ended up getting the offer and would say my performance on the case was a big part of it.
Listening to Cases is a Passive Exercise. While listening to other people do case interviews helps you become familiar with the structure and format of a case interview, it is not necessarily the best way to improve your actual case interview skills.
The best way to get better at solving cases is to practice case interviews either by yourself or through a case interview partner. Only through practice can you get better at developing structured frameworks, communicating clearly, and executing math proficiently.
The biggest shortcoming of the Look Over My Shoulder Program is that it is a passive program in which you learn by listening instead of actually doing. They are all highly structured and organized. While these may be great to study for McKinsey interviews, they are much less similar to the styles of cases that other firms such as BCG and Bain give. BCG and Bain cases can be much less structured and more discussion-based.
Therefore, if you are preparing for interviews at consulting firms besides McKinsey, know that this program has a heavy McKinsey style case bias. Many of these case interview videos are made by former McKinsey, BCG, and Bain consultants, so they can be high quality resources. The program does not directly teach you exactly how to solve case interviews.
0コメント