[Where Wysteria had half turned on her stool to follow the line of his retreat, Wysteria pauses. From out of the corner of an eye or viewed off the edge of a door jamb, it can't look like much but the internal jerk against the ribs checks her, and her hand pressed tight over the crystal, and her empty sleeve pinned primly up in defiance of the arm lurking in a foggy jar in this very room. She lapses into an abrupt, jagged quiet.
(Ah, there is that prickle again on the back of her neck—hot at the base of her skull, guilt biting at pride's scruff. At one point, hadn't that been something she'd wanted? For someone to be very devastated at the prospect.)]
I'm [feels very difficult to work out, that first syllable. It must be pried free.] Sorry to have been a worry to anyone.
no subject
(Ah, there is that prickle again on the back of her neck—hot at the base of her skull, guilt biting at pride's scruff. At one point, hadn't that been something she'd wanted? For someone to be very devastated at the prospect.)]
I'm [feels very difficult to work out, that first syllable. It must be pried free.] Sorry to have been a worry to anyone.