Still. Why in Alioe's name would her father be here, tucked away in arguably the most frustrating section of the Stacks, rather than set up comfortable in a nicer, bigger apartment - or at least a standalone one without an occupied ground floor. It was ridiculous really, but she supposed her father's reputation played into account: either he didn't want to be seen and noticed doing what he was doing in there, or he was hiding yet again from his family at home. That was what that long disappearance of his had been, hadn't it?
Hiding. Escaping. Cerise could understand the desire completely, even if not the motive.
The Stacks were far from foreign to the young woman. Although during her first few years of attendance she had resided in an on-campus dorm, she had flocked to the freedom on the other side of the moat quite quickly, finding far more pleasant company outside of Brunnhold's red, fortified walls. She knew these streets like the back of her hand, or rather, the lines that splayed across her palms, and it was difficult enough for one to stay hidden when young Cerise desired to find them, let alone when it was her godsbedamned father. Had he truly expected to stay here, making little visits out and about, and stay completely under her nose? She would've found the notion offensive if it weren't so damned hurtful.
Given, she hadn't made any attempt to contact her father since their fallout either, but this was different. She hadn't went all the way to Vienda and played around while her father was nearby and fully able to speak with her. She might've been prideful, might've been upset, might've even been a bit regretful of the things they had said when they'd spoken last, but she didn't hate the man. She doubted that she ever could - no, she still clung to what approval she could gather from the older galdor with a tight grasp, as much as she hated herself for it.
Not even a hello.
It was cold; not nearly as low in temperature as it had been during the winter, admittedly, but still the wind sent a chill down her spine and raised the near-invisible hairs on her arms. A cloak disguised her form, the fabric lashing against the breeze behind her as she walked, pace quick and certain, hood pulled over top her head. It was quite obvious in the student's face that she was displeased, and not simply with the chill; dark eyebrows pulled closer together in visible irritation, gray eyes a display of concentration, narrowed as they were against the cool air. Only the edges of long, dark locks crept out from beneath her hood, curling in wispy waves and glimmering with redder tones anytime the sun decided to show its face.
Cerise came upon the apartment early in the morning, always having been one to rise early and fall to bed quite late, not even considering the idea that her father might not have awoken yet. It didn't cross her mind; thoughts preoccupied with what she might say, what in the world she could say because she certainly hadn't planned any great speech. It had come as a rather rushed and quick decision to seek out her father during his visit; mention of his presence within the Stacks had found her ears in the form of idle gossip but formed fully only after a hasty duel of not wit, but an idiot holding out on information.
The young galdor pulled her field close to her form as she ascended the stairs, grateful at least to be out of the cold wind once she'd reached the door to (what she hoped was) Anatole Vauquelin's rented apartment. Despite being a concentrated wall of energy about her, her field still allowed subtle errors through; tiny flickers of doubt before a deep breath was taken into her lungs.
No going back now.
Lifting an arm from beneath her dark cloak, Cerise reached toward the door, hesitating again for just a moment before knocking against the surface.