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[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 21 Roalis, 2719
Oiler's Rest, off the Wharf

Niccolette woke.

It was light, or perhaps it was dark; she did not know. There was too much light; her eyes ached with the strain of trying to open, and the pain of it seemed to reach back into her skull and throb somewhere she couldn’t name. She tried to picture it like a diagram, but that only hurt worse, and shapes and words seemed to float around inside her, dizzying and odd, like a puzzle with no shape.

The other place which hurt was her ear. Niccolette thought she must have rolled over; she wondered if it was the pain that had woken her. It was sticky and damp all along it, and against her cheek and down her neck. She did not look at the pillow; she thrust it to the side, and climbed out of the bed, and stumbled towards the bathroom.

Niccolette made it, but only just. Throwing up hurt worse than the light, and it made the throbbing in her ear considerably more painful. She clung to the cool porcelain until the shaking had eased, and then half-barkers backwards, and curled up against the cool tiled floor, pressing her too hot cheek against it.

Niccolette woke again shivering. It was not only the cold; it rippled through her like waves, like water, like tears. She was crying, then, sobbing, curled up on her side on the floor. The air shaded blue around her, soft at first and then deep and dark. Nothing drained from it; it did not go anywhere, but, in time, Niccolette collected it back before her skin, and held the heavy weight of it in her chest once more.

The Bastian rose up onto her knees; she shuddered. She grabbed hold of the counter, and at the clink of her ring against the counter she felt her anger rise too. It got her to her feet; it got her, shaking, to the sink, to splash palmfuls of water against her face and ear, to rinse her mouth out until she could not taste anymore.

Niccolette lifted her gaze slowly to the mirror, and she looked. “Fuck you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and rasping, and she knew who it was she cursed.

Niccolette stumbled out to the bedroom. Walking grew easier as she did it, as if her legs were remembering how. “Fuck you,” she said, a little louder, her damp fingers dragging through the heavy mess of her hair, “you clockstopping ersehole.”

She had to stop, then, to cry; it was a brief one, like a squall, fierce and wild and over as quickly as it had begun.

Niccolette dressed. She didn’t know how she had chosen, but she knew that it was a pale purple silk shirt that she buttoned with shaking fingers, that she tucked into the hem of light brown pants. She pulled the belt tight, and then tighter again, finding the neat new hole which had been carved into the leather of it. She settled it against her hips, and sank down, burying her face in her hands, perched on the edge of her vanity.

Niccolette did not bother with powder, or lip color, or black kohl to rim her eyes. She ran a brush through her hair, but only lightly, because too many of the strokes sent a jagged pain through her. She did not look back at the bed; she blew out the lamp, and she went.

Niccolette went along the edges of King’s Court to the Wharf. She felt as if she faded in and out through the walk; she could not have said the path nor the streets, and she was left with only a vague impression of shivering in the cold night air, and the throbbing pain and blank dullness on one side. Once, someone came close in the dark, footsteps creeping behind her; Niccolette flexed her field, then, pulsed it sharp and vicious and let the fury seep into it.

And they went, and so did she.

Niccolette didn’t bother with the name of the tavern; she made her way inside, into the warmth and the noise. It streamed around her, through her; it throbbed in her head. It was enough, just barely, to let her forget; it was not so much, just barely, that she could not stand it. She walked through the crowds without looking around, without the slightest acknowledgment of anyone around her, and they parted for her, and the furious brightness of her field.

Niccolette settled herself onto a stool at the edge of the bar, wobbling. She held tight to the edge of it with one hand, gold ring glinting in the light. She tucked her throbbing, aching ear towards the wall, and let the other fill with sounds. There was a tankard before her, then, and she slid a coin across the sticky wood for it, not caring if it was the right one. Niccolette drank, a heavy mouthful. She swallowed; she sat.

It came all at once; it came unstoppable and uncontrollable, and there was nothing she could do. There was time only to turn her head, because even with her eyes watering, Niccolette could not bear to be sick on her own lap. She leaned over, shuddering, and brought up whatever was left in her stomach, and the beer besides, and she did not so much as look to see where it would go – so long as it was not Uzoji’s pants.

[Peregrine]

21 of Roalis, 2719 - Evening
Oiler's Rest

Time was they weren't drunk quite so much, they thought. They weren't sure, but they thought there might have been such a time. Other faces, they hadn't made Peregrine ache so much. Or was it that Peregrine didn't hurt so much in them? They weren't rightly sure. All the same in the end. Drink helped most of the time, softened all the edges and let Peregrine swim around pleasantly behind Gideon's face.

Made it awful hard to keep any coin, though. Gideon weren't a cheap date, and Peregrine weren't gonna settle for bottom shelf unless they had to. After all, what was the point of having a face at all if you weren't gonna give it nice things? None that's what. They'd had a lot of time to think on it.

They weren't much a fan of Oiler's Rest, truth be to tell. But they'd been near enough to it when the want for drink came on them that they'd gone in. Besides, lots of the others weren't too keen on seeing a Peregrine playing at being Gideon night after night. They weren't so sure why. Gideon was such a good face. Leastways here folks left them alone to get drunk in peace mostly.

Peregrine also liked it on account of how it weren't often they got bothered by a woobly scraping across them. Not stronger than some glamour anyways, which weren't much at all. Not like this thing that came to sit down next to them, all vicious. Peregrine visibly recoiled at the feel of it as it approached. No no no--why weren't it staying away? They wanted it to stay away, but it didn't.

Shit. They'd had too many drinks already, and it made them slow. Thick. They'd made the body quiet its whining, sure as shit they'd done that. But they were also too slow to drag themselves away, couldn’t wrap their head around no thoughts with that loud, sharp field right next them. Peregrine couldn’t even see the body what went with it through all of those angry buzzing little knives scraping over them.

Shit, shit, shit. They wanted to get up, to get away, but Peregrine couldn’t seem to get Gideon to listen. By the time they started to stand, that field next to them had turned. Had turned and… was sick all over, catching Peregrine on the shoes. Peregrine reeled back, Gideon’s body moving like a marionette with only half its strings. Gideon’s arm shot out, knocking their glass to the floor along with ale and several other things besides. Peregrine looked down and blinked slow, then looked up again with a frown, trying to make their eyes focus on the thing the woobly surrounded instead of just wanting to run from it.

“You… y’ent well,” they said at last. Their voice was rusty; it had been a few days since they’d last talked to anyone. Didn’t even talk to the bartender when they got in to the tavern, just sorta pointed.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 21 Roalis, 2719
Oiler's Rest, off the Wharf

Niccolette coughed, shuddering; her eyes were watering, and her throat ached, not just from this, but from everything that had come before it. She squeezed her eyes shut, one hand clinging desperately to the edge of the bar; she was swaying, slightly on the stool. She had turned enough that her bad ear was facing the bar, and she was aware of the dizzying blankness that came, there.

She had been hot, before; she had been unbearably hot, all her skin rubbing painfully against even the soft, light fabrics of Uzoji’s clothing. Now there were waves of cold washing through her, sharp and miserable, making her jerk, making it even harder to stay upright. The thin purple silk felt translucent – felt like nothing – felt as if it had sunk into her skin, merged with the thin layers of it – as if the light was shining straight through here, there was nothing there at all, nothing but a cold, dark place –

There was a distant crashing sound; Niccolette opened her eyes, looking down at the shattered glass on the ground, the pool of ale spreading from it – shoes, she thought, covered with – Niccolette closed her eyes again, feeling the urge to be sick rising up through her once more.

Niccolette was aware, too, of a faint feeling – like a trickle of something down the side of her jaw. She shuddered; she fumbled a handkerchief loose from her pocket, and pressed it to her ear. She eased herself more upright, slowly; she was swaying still, and she did her best to open her eyes once more, conscious of a faint blurring to her vision. She blinked, trying to clear it; it did not seem to take.

A human was staring at her, frowning. His voice, when he spoke, rasped like the creaking of a gate. Niccolette stared at him, frowning; it took a few moments for the words to penetrate. It was hard to hear; it was hard to focus on anything, with all the noise of the bar around them, and the throbbing in her head. Her skin crawled.

“Fuck off,” Niccolette said, her voice hoarse and rasping. She was conscious of the prickling of tears in her eyes; she shuddered, holding tight to the bar still, her other hand pressing the handkerchief to her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut again; there, now, another trickle of something, down along the inside curve of her nose. She licked her lips, tasting sick and salt together; she grimaced, shaking. She thought if she let go of the bar she would fall – she was almost certain of it – so she did not let go. She lowered the messy handkerchief to the bar, and ran her fingers through her hair again, shoving it back off her face, opening her eyes again and blinking until they adjusted to the light.

[Peregrine]

21 of Roalis, 2719 - Evening
Oiler's Rest

Awful sick, this woman was--and now they could see that beyond that horrible scrape, the jangling that made them want to run away and hide, there was indeed a woman. Peregrine frowned and looked around the bar. Didn't seem as she was with anyone. Every hair on Gideon's neck was standing on end; they didn't like it, and they should leave. The thought swam around, and Gideon's body refused to listen, so they just stood there, arm still half on the bar and soaked in beer and whatever else had been there when they knocked everything to the floor.

Well, what did Peregrine care? That hideous thing could be sick to death for all it mattered to them. One less field, good riddance. Peregrine weren't concerned for the state of the woman in the field, even though she was fair benny easy to look at and Peregrine did so like pretty things. Didn't like them when was pretty and scraping against them to make them sick, though. Didn't like them when the was ruining their shoes, and them without having too many others. Peregrine squinted; the terrible thing wobbled.

"Yeah arrite," Peregrine agreed. See? They were am... ami... ama... agreeable. That's what they were. An agreeable sort of person, Gideon Carver. Peregrine liked as to think so anyway. They weren't so sure as yet but that seemed like a good thing for a Gideon to be. Agreeable and--and not so petty as to mind the loss of some shoes. Right? Yeah. Peregrine wobbled, knowing it was Drink Seven what was moving them and not just that funny little way Gideon didn't as agree with them sometimes.

Peregrine turned to leave, glad to escape the sick woobly and all the scraping jangling stabbing shouting. Except. Except as they hadn't remembered all the sick and the drink and the glass on the floor. Hadn't remembered as Gideons didn't always work the way Peregrine wanted. So they misstepped, just a little, but it was enough. Without so much as a by-your-leave, Gideon's arm shot out again, scrabbling for some kind of purchase what to keep them from landing their erse on that filthy floor. Didn't care what that purchase was--the bar, the stool. A fistful of pale purple silk, maybe. Long as it stopped them from falling, they didn't much care.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 21 Roalis, 2719
Oiler's Rest, off the Wharf

The human agreed, although he was still just standing there, staring at her. Niccolette looked away; there was a black-spotted mirror above the bar, pointed not back out at her but turned. Dim lights overhead glistened in it. Niccolette watched them, and did the best to find a careful doing of her breath, although it was growing harder through the tight aching in her chest and wet blurring of her gaze.

She knew better than to resist, by now, didn’t she? Niccolette closed her eyes again. Tears came, and sobbing too. Sometimes she could bargain; sometimes she could say no, not here, not now, just let me have a little longer. Sometimes it worked. She clenched her jaw against it, pushing back. It wasn’t the shame; she wasn’t ashamed. Niccolette had learned long ago - and relearned and relearned again - that shame was a choice, and it was one she refused to make. No one could make you feel it, not without that you were willing. But it was godsdamned inconvenient all the same, and she did not want to cry, not now, not again.

The human shifted, finally, Niccolette thought bitterly, taking his lease. Niccolette heard, distant though her good ear, the sound of a scuff against the floor; there was a blur of movement in the corner of her eye. She felt it then; something tangled in her shirt, and it wrenched her sideways.

Niccolette shrieked. She was holding on to the bar still, but it did not matter; it didn’t even slow her. The force of the grab pulled her off the stool; she landed with a vicious thump against the human, half on top of him. He was bitterly cold against her, even through layers of fabric.

Niccolette shrieked again; she wrenched herself away from him, all elbows and knees, scrabbling back on the floor. One hand glanced through the shattered, beer-stained glass, leaving a faint smear of blood against the wood; Niccolette did not care. She did not so much as notice. She kicked out, once, and then she was free of him, and huddled against the metal leg of the stool, tears steaming down her cheeks.

Niccolette looked, slowly, down at the purple silk shirt. Her pants were a wreck as well; she could not think about the smell of it, and the sick she had left behind. Carefully, one trembling hand reached to touch the shirt - the filth smeared against it, and the place where the delicate fabric had been ripped open. She was shaking; more tears streamed down her cheeks. There was pale flesh visible below, ribs and stomach, and the edges of a rounded burn scar at the edge of the gap, covering her left side from hip to ribs, with lines like the lifelines in a palm etched into the darkened skin.

Niccolette shuddered; she caught her breath. Her head throbbed. She pulled her hand away, slowly; there was a little smear of her own blood against the fabric as well.

Niccolette looked up. Her face twisted; her jaw clenched. She sigiled; her field slanted in the air around them, gone hot and tense, burning. A red haze seeped out to fill the air, and fury pulsed out from her, filling the narrow space between them. Her already sharp field grew sharper, furious and pulsing, and all the weight of it bore down on the human before her.

“How dare you,” Niccolette spat, shaking. She did not move; she was not sure she could. She clung to the leg of the stool with one hand; she did not think she could stay upright without it. “How fucking dare you, you godsdamned clockstopping plowfoot!”

[Peregrine]

21 of Roalis, 2719 - Evening
Oiler's Rest

They hadn't meant to grab her, the woman-inside-the-woobly. Hadn't meant to grab nothing at all, in fact. Peregrine could have tumbled to the ground just fine, like as not. Gideon wouldn't have been too damaged in a fall like that. Leastaways not if they didn't get caught up in some glass in the landing. The body had other ideas, though, and some of them ideas included grabbing on to a fist full of that small lady's shirt. Didn't even do nothing to slow them down much; she was easily half Gideon's size.

She shrieked as they both went clattering to the floor; Peregrine winced. They had too much drink for a sound like that, never you mind that scrape jangle scratch she was surrounded with. The landing was fair brutal, and for a moment Peregrine thought the was going to be sick too, the way her knee managed to collide with their gut, and her foot connected sharp and vicious with their shoulder.

"Fuck!" They hissed, and curled into their shoulder. This weren't the first time they'd been kicked, but it was the first being kicked by a screeching lady while they was wearing the Gideon face. It hurt. They sat up slow, trying to keep all of their insides where they belonged and not adding them to the smear of sick and glass and blood all on the floor. Blearily they looked to the lady.

That pretty silk shirt of hers had been made a right mess of. For a moment, Peregrine was almost sorry. It was a nice thing, and for all the gollies could always replace their nice things easy enough, they still didn't like destroying them as such. Also, they reflected, she seemed injured. That was a shame too.

Almost, that is, until she did whatever it was she had done to make the air around them change. Hot, so hot--and Peregrine was always so cold, it felt so wrong against their skin. They could feel that shift in her field, all red and sharp and heavy. They hissed, a sound more like a wounded animal than a proper person. They didn't like it. They didn't like that field, they didn't like the way she used it, they didn't like didn't like it didn't like it. Made them jittery, it did, and that field were so hot.

Trying to burn the flesh off of Gideon's bones--that's what she was trying to do, they thought. Trying to--to burn the Peregrine out. Peregrine had never seen anyone try that before; weren't even sure it was possible. But maybe that's what--shit. Shit. They couldn't think, not with all that jangle scrape scratch burn, and the sound of her voice in their ears. Didn't like the voice any more than the field, not with her shrieking at them.

Without thinking, they reached out to take her wrist. Weren't sure why--part of the not thinking, they supposed. "Shut up!" they ground out, hand coming to clamp cold and tight around her. Did they mean the field, her voice? Didn't know, didn't care, just wanted it to stop stop stop.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 21 Roalis, 2719
Oiler's Rest, off the Wharf

Niccolette’s vision was blurring in and out. She shook her head, sharply; it sent a painful pulse through her ear, and she almost gagged on it. The anger was more than enough to sustain her; it was furious and hot and it burned inside her as she stared at what she could make out of the human, half-curled on the ground, coming back up from where he’d fallen.

There was noise all around them still, although Niccolette could scarcely made it out; it was a distant low humming. The fury had faded, a little; it was hard to hold onto anything. Niccolette’s hand tightened on the stool, and she gripped the anger again, stark and fierce, feeling it surge out of her and pour into the air all around her. It was not the accidental, clumsy spilling of a student whose feelings had overflowed their field; it was the deliberate, furious action of a skilled sorcerer, and it felt every bit so intense.

“You clumsy fucking bee-eater,” Niccolette hissed. “By Her deadly terrors, you – ”

The human reached out. His hand wrapped cold around her wrist; the touch sent shivers all up her arm and down her spine, and he yelled at her to shut up.

Niccolette did, mostly out of surprise more than anything else. She lost her grip on her sigiling as well, staring at the human, mouth slightly open, hair hanging damp and lank around her head. She looked down at the small, pale arm in his grasp, the massive hand clamped around her arm. She was trembling; his grip was so cold around her. Her field settled back into something like its usual indectal state, although there was still an edge to the mona, something anxious, which skittered through the air around her.

Niccolette could not think of the last time anyone had treated her like this – Niccolette could not think. There were thoughts; they skittered vague along the surface of her mind, and she could not catch hold of them. They danced, here and there; they weaved into sight and then darted away, too quickly to be seen. They flickered like candleflame, and blew out just as easy.

Finally – at least – Niccolette found one, sharp and in focus, glowing. It whispered to her: this cannot stand.

Niccolette’s mouth snapped shut; her gaze lifted, and she drew herself up, gripping the leg of the stool all the more firmly. The pressure in the air around her heightened again, and she bore down on the human once more, brutal. “Let me go,” Niccolette said, coolly. There were no more tears, now, though something wet was trickling down the side of her head again, and the hand he held was bleeding steadily from the palm.

“Now," Niccolette snapped, sharply, her gaze boring unflinching into his.

[Peregrine]

21 of Roalis, 2719 - Evening
Oiler's Rest

The woman shut up.

Peregrine hadn't expected that, even though that's what they had wanted. Weren't often as gollies took orders from the likes of Peregrine. She shut up, stopped what she was doing with her woobly too. Just sort of sat there and gawped at Peregrine. She looked damp. Trembled. Peregrine wondered if she was afraid of them. Folks sometimes were. Usually were, if they was honest. Though they ent done much to earn it, most of the time. Not as they noticed.

They couldn't help it. Maybe it was all the drink, maybe they'd hit their head on the way down. Maybe it was relief from the way the noise stopped for a moment. Peregrine's mouth widened into that hatcher's smile of theirs and they wheezed out a laugh. It was a short, rusty thing, the drag of dead branch against glass. Imagine: this little golly lady and her woobly all flexed around them, stopped by their graveyard's grip on her arm. It was funny, weren't it? Fair hee-lar-ee-us. Fucking hysterical.

Then she evidently got a grip on herself, as toffin ladies like this often did. Grip. Ha! They laughed again. Even though they could see the barkeep watching them anxious, waiting to see if this were gonna be something they had to break up--or hide from, more like, given the lady's involvment. The pressure pushed down on them again, and Peregrine's laughter cut off with a choke and another hiss.

Let her go, she said, and Peregrine did want to. Peregrine would have loved to let the lady go and leave, stumble home (such as it was) and wash all of the sick and blood and woobly off of them. Problem was, they couldn't. Instead of letting go, Gideon's hand tightened and dug in, nails finding the lady's fine skin.

"Can't," they said simply. Were they frightened of the lady? Fuck yes they was. They weren't stupid, they knew what a lady like this could do. Didn't much show on their face, of course. Peregrine couldn't seem to muster up the energy to control all them muscles in that fine, handsome Gideon face. There were so many muscles, they thought, to keep track of. Was hard sometimes. Like now, when they was drunk and that field was so suffocating. Peregrine met the lady's gaze and they flinched but didn't look away.

"Blood," they added. They didn't elaborate; weren't as sure why they said it. It was there, they supposed, and it might just be as the lady would be interested to know. They were afraid and they were having trouble keeping track of themself. Forgot the hand on her arm, then remembered, then forgot again just as abruptly.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 21 Roalis, 2719
Oiler's Rest, off the Wharf

The human had let loose a wheezing, choked laugh, once and then again. That, as much as anything, had shocked Niccolette back into movement, had penetrated the thick haze through which she seemed to be seeing the world – like smoke, smog, thick in her mind, impenetrable –

His nails dug into her wrist; he was squeezing it, hard enough to hurt. Hard enough, Niccolette thought, to bruise.

He refused to let go. Niccolette looked down at her wrist, at the thick rough fingers wrapped around it; part of his hand had dug into the fabric of the shirt, pulling it tight. His nails, filthy, disgusting things, were digging into her skin, pressing crescents into the flesh. Niccolette could feel a throbbing pain from the grab, aching up her arm.

She knew something of breaking bones; something too, of crushing them. This would not damage them, not really – not the bones, not the fragile tendons, not the nerves which kept the hand functioning. He could bruise her; he could bruise her quickly badly. It did hurt; it would do so, Niccolette thought, unexpectedly clear, for some time.

But there was no real danger; only pain. The amount of force needed to break the wrist by squeezing would be absurd. It was not a hard joint to break, not with striking force or twisting force - but by holding tightly? Even a human could not manage it, not against an adult.

Blood trickled down her palm; the cut was beginning to clot already, not so deep. Perhaps she should worry about infection, Niccolette thought. She could almost have giggled at the thought, feeling the deep, throbbing ache in her ear, the echoing silence, the heat that must have been rising off her skin. Almost.

Niccolette lifted her gaze back up to the human. It took her several blinks to focus on his face; it was blank of all expression, even fear. Blood, he said.

“Yours or mine?” Niccolette asked. Her gaze swept over him, against the bloody scrapes on his legs. She looked back up at his face, her gaze set and serious. She bore down, a little sharper, pulsing energy through her field, the mona rippling in a wave around her. There was no dampening; she reached out with her field, forcing it out through the air around them. There was a distant flinch, at the edge of her gaze; someone eased back and away from the pressure of it. She did not look; her gaze was fixed solidly on the human sitting opposite her.

Niccolette smiled, then. It was an easy smile; it curved her lips, and did not touch her eyes. There was nothing of humor in it, nothing of warmth; it was cold and pitiless, and it was very much a promise. Her ear ached; her wrist throbbed; none of it could touch her, not really. Her other hand ached too, from holding onto the stool, but she refused to let go; she did not know where it might lead. Nor, she thought, did she wish to.

Niccolette did her best to gather herself. She inhaled, deeply, and exhaled as well; it was a struggle to remember the count of even that one breath, a struggle to carve out the space for it between the ache and the fog and all the rest. She tried again, and again; she held the flex and the pulse through her, and, too, she held her gaze on the human’s face, and the warning smile on her face.

"Let me go," Niccolette said again. Her voice was rough and aching; she could taste the bile in her throat, still, and feel it on her tongue and teeth. All the same, it was the sharp, distinct voice of command. Something slithered down her spine; something prickled over her skin. She did not look away.

[Peregrine]

21 of Roalis, 2719 - Evening
The Floor of Oiler's Rest

Thoughts kept swimming up and then away in Peregrine's mind. Slippery little fishes. They tried to catch them, especially the ones as seemed most relevant to letting go of the lady with the sharp field all around her, but they couldn't seem to manage the trick. Her skin was hot, Peregrine could tell even through the fine silk shirt. All ruined now, they knew. Ruined ruined ruined. They didn't want to be ruined themself, no they did not, but they couldn't seem to make Gideon's hand listen to them. Those lovely musician's fingers just wouldn't uncurl from the fine lady's wrist. Fuck them running, they wanted to let go so godsdamn bad.

Yours or mine? she'd asked. Peregrine blinked, dully, and looked at their legs. Looked at all of them, tried to take stock. Was hard, with all the thoughts swimming away and how everything seemed as to hurt anyways, even before they fell to floor like this. That was what the drink was for, weren't it? For all the aches in the joints and so on. Medicinal. They weren't quite as sure which of them they'd meant--yours or mine? What was the difference? Hers could be theirs, if they really wanted. They were fairly certain.

Then she did the thing again, the weight of the mona scraping at Peregrine-inside-Gideon. Horrible, sharp. They wanted to leave! They wanted to let the lady go and retreat to lick their wounds and sleep for just an hour or two, forget they were always forgetting. She looked at them and they looked back, unblinking until they did, deliberately, on account of how their eyes hurt and it made them remember. Dark eyes fluttered closed, stayed shut for just a moment. A heartbeat, while their skin fair writhed and tried to get away on account of this lady in her fucking purple shirt and her scalpel of a field. Their eyelids were dark too, a bruised-looking color that spoke of months of too little sleep. When they opened them again the lady was smiling. Peregrine did not smile back; they didn't think the lady would like it if they did.

"Can't," they repeated, with something in their low, rough voice now. "Trying." They flinched but they didn't move; those tan slim fingers spasmed just a little. The other hand started drumming out a nervous little pattern on the floor, tracing something in all the glass and blood and sick. They didn't care as to think on it too much.