The summer evening is well on toward dark. Morgause is in the bedchamber in her nightgown, her hair already done in its single bedtime braid. She is talking softly to her eight-year-old eldest, standing soberly at her knee.

Another late night, long past midnight. Morgause is leaning on the kitchen counter with her head in her hands. She's wrapped in a dark-green dressing gown, her hair is down in two long dark braids; the kitchen furnishings, designed to modern standards, make her look small and worn.

She lets herself out of Sagramore's room with eyes blazing; the door shuts behind her with a click. The sleek braids of her hair are coming loose, but she pays no heed; she starts down the hallway toward her own room, skirts frothing.

Morgause stands in the library, with a book open before her on the lectern, frowning in concentration. In the dimmed light her hair glimmers like black water, and she traces the handwritten letters with one slender finger.

Childermass abitofboth
Linden heartofbirds

Any other interested parties, feel free to comment. :)