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(Muse) The night was slowly trickling into her window, sending dabbles of darkness to skid and shimmer across the table, across her arms. The sparks of candlelight did little to illuminate the room around her, so she sat in the semi-darkness, hands folded, fingers laced in fingers. Sat, just sat. Shrugged her shoulders, rolled them, beneath the pressures of time, which seemed to be pushing downward on her with its steady tick tocking frown. Anabelle closed her eyes a moment, listening to the shrill wail of some dark wind as it beat against the walls; if she closed her eyes tightly enough, she might catch the chilled edge of it on her skin. She might be able to forget. But Anabelle didn't close her eyes tightly; it wasn't her style. She kept her eyelids light, fluttering--opened them once more in a second, as the wash of night finally drowned the day in darkness. The remaining drips of light came from her own candle, from street lanterns that flooded the night, sending sprays, splashes, of orange, copper; they filtered through the falling and flickered, fireflies, in the chamber. Reminding her of day. _Hell. Bloody hell._ Standing, she tightened her hands into fists, held them balled against her sides. There was a metallic taste in her mouth, almost like blood, as though the days events had soured on her tongue, slipped, bitter, into her senses. Her arms and legs felt heavy, her eyelids weighed down. It wasn't simple weariness--it was a physical and mental exhaustion that left her with little energy. Well, it wasn't as though she currently _required_ energy. Should she need it, she would find it. But, Lord, was she tired. Anabelle rubbed her eyes, took two steps. Strangely, she seemed to catch the scent of lilac--sudden and faint, disturbing. Her mother came to her, in that half-sensed form, the chilled childhood vision: White-laced, hands outstretched, weak smile. Anabelle darling, are you scared? she'd asked in that silver-soft voice, as thunder crashed loudly. Child Anabelle, alone, hugged her legs to her. Weak--everything that Anabelle refused to be. She gave a twitch of a smile the family, flicked her wrist: a dismissal of all things in the past. A dismissal of her mother, from which she'd taken nothing but the vague realization that only the strong survived--that those with no will only ran. The papers on her desk caught her eye for a moment. How many things could go wrong in one day? Children missing--this false attack on the Unicorn Brigade--the general apprehension that seemed to have seeped into the city. For a moment, she was actually glad of Jess's existence. "I wonder if Fitcher actually ran my errand..." she mused aloud, then returned to her desk, to her papers. Even this late at night, there was always _something_ to be done.
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