He is angry. She can see it somewhere in his face and bearing and in the space of the room that he absorbs. Good, she thinks. He should be.
"That is why I did it, you stupid man!" Snapped shrill and loud in the closeness of the room. It's late in the day and possibly the rest of the floor has already gone to attend to other business and no one else will hear it. Regardless, Wysteria de Foncé's shriek is hardly cause for concern on most days.
"Because she's been here, and you care for her, and it would be very terrible for her to just be gone and dead!"
There is no pen tucked behind her ear. But then yes there is, drawn briskly forward to her hand. It's the thing that comes most readily to her fingers for throwing at him.
A pen is flung at him, and he jerks backwards more out of surprise than anything else, a momentary flicker between the next shelf of anger than slams back into place. Shrill, loud words off near walls, like a sudden shattering of crockery.
He isn't wondering if anyone heard her. He is thinking, gone and dead, and wondering if he can wrench back into order that sensation of tangled insides, if the problem at hand being made taut between them could be cut through simply.
He doesn't have to press the matter. Fully red in the face, Wysteria whirls round with a flare of skirts and storms from the office. The stamp of her stiff soled boots is audible for some seconds, and then is swallowed up by the restrictive architecture of the Gallows.
As for the projectile— well that too has gone as if it had never been thrown to begin with.
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"That is why I did it, you stupid man!" Snapped shrill and loud in the closeness of the room. It's late in the day and possibly the rest of the floor has already gone to attend to other business and no one else will hear it. Regardless, Wysteria de Foncé's shriek is hardly cause for concern on most days.
"Because she's been here, and you care for her, and it would be very terrible for her to just be gone and dead!"
There is no pen tucked behind her ear. But then yes there is, drawn briskly forward to her hand. It's the thing that comes most readily to her fingers for throwing at him.
no subject
He isn't wondering if anyone heard her. He is thinking, gone and dead, and wondering if he can wrench back into order that sensation of tangled insides, if the problem at hand being made taut between them could be cut through simply.
Ah, yes—
"Out," Marcus snaps. "Get out."
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As for the projectile— well that too has gone as if it had never been thrown to begin with.
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It's with more force that he means that a thoughtless summoning of magic snags onto the door and slams it closed.