you won't understand the cause of your grief [open]
Lascelles.
She has braided her dark hair back severely, and put aside her finery for a stark black gown. She is sitting at her table with her palms pressed together, not in prayer but in concentration. The room, with its lush crimsons and polished wood and hints of gold, is lit only by a candle.
(Clarissant should not have known before she did. It doesn't matter now, nothing matters right now, but she will remember it later.)
Her mind is elsewhere, and it might not be surprising if Mr Lascelles, wherever he is at the moment, felt a moment's prickle of unease.
(Morgause does not want company; but if she will leave the door ajar, as she's seemingly done, she has only herself to blame if she gets it.)
She has braided her dark hair back severely, and put aside her finery for a stark black gown. She is sitting at her table with her palms pressed together, not in prayer but in concentration. The room, with its lush crimsons and polished wood and hints of gold, is lit only by a candle.
(Clarissant should not have known before she did. It doesn't matter now, nothing matters right now, but she will remember it later.)
Her mind is elsewhere, and it might not be surprising if Mr Lascelles, wherever he is at the moment, felt a moment's prickle of unease.
(Morgause does not want company; but if she will leave the door ajar, as she's seemingly done, she has only herself to blame if she gets it.)