the nights were long and cold and scary

[cold_magdalen]

Magda is sitting quietly in the Agora, muffled in winter velvet. She hasn't been back to Messina since the night of Morgana's party--hasn't seen her mother, or her wounded father, who she knows is somewhere--might be dead, might not, she doesn't know what Martel did to him and she finds that most of the time she doesn't care, let his blood be

Comments

[ironshodboots]

Nazca is possibly the worst person ever to help a crying girl. On the other hand, she remembers Magda from the party at the Mare, and she's a friend at two degrees of separation by being virtue of being Sirius' date.

"Hey - are you hurt?" she asks, slowing on her way to Hermes' temple.

[cold_magdalen]

Magda looks up--the only thing obviously hurt is her dignity, as she wipes at her eyes quickly and says, "Nay--nay, I am not."

[ironshodboots]

"No blood at least, that's good." Nazca looks her over, critically. However, this means it's a emotions thing, which also means she's completely out of luck as far as knowing what to do.

"So, uh, anything you need help with?"

[cold_magdalen]

"I have never been so long from my home," quietly.

[want_of_tact]

St. George's wife has tried to knock the chivalrous streak out of him, and tried, and tried, but at the end of the day he is a Wimsey. So even though he only knows Magda as the date of that man he met briefly at Morgana's party, here he is, leaning on his walking stick with one hand and offering a cup of tea with the other.

Hello, Magda, meet the most British man in the multiverse.

[cold_magdalen]

She looks up and sniffles, and wipes her eyes; and then she takes the tea in both hands, cupping it.

"Mary, I thank thee," in a small voice.

[want_of_tact]

"It's no trouble," says St. George, gently. "You looked like you might need it-- though I don't know how you take it, and I'm afraid I didn't have a hand free for cream or sugar."

[cold_magdalen]

"'Tis no matter, an it's hot."