A slender, slightly-built woman staggered into the Sorting Room on high-heeled boots, emerging from a cloud of smoke, the kind a fog machine might make, stage-smoke. Wild eyes peered from garish pools of makeup, darting confused glances here and there. Hedwig Robinson tugged at the hems of her cutoffs and smoothed sweaty palms along her gleaming
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Delirium watched Hedwig, curious. "Um. I like your stockings," she said, with an almost childlike grin. "Is Cher the cheese after love?"
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“Cher-cheese could have company, then.” The thought made her happy, and when she was happy the butterflies flew out of her hair again, swooping and vaguely sparkly. “I wouldn’t want to bartend in a wall, thought.”
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“I do say so. Here, have a fishie.” One of the fish swooped out and circled Hedwig’s head a few times, before melting into a puff of smoke.
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With a shaky smile, she waved and headed over to talk with someone whose hair stayed hair.
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