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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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.