*Not unlike her son, Walburga always encounters some difficulty sleeping. Tonight's no different: her music box has done little but bore her--she's been using it too much lately, perhaps--and she'd really rather not take a potion, not when she feels so very nearly drowsy, so she's reading in the bronze parlor with a glass of milk for company. In her quilted wrapper of amber brocade she bears more than a little resemblance to the antique furnishings of the room, or to the ancient and sinister objets d'art and delicate instruments tucked into the shelves and curios cabinets. She does like this parlor, when she is feeling wakeful: it's warm and homey, lit by candles, and does much to help her along.
A little more of the book and she's suitably drowsy to give the music box another try. After carefully marking her place with a green ribbon, she rises and steps lightly out of the parlor and into the hall, ready to mount the stairs. But once Reg enters, and collapses, her pale hands fly up to her mouth and her eyes become huge. First it's out of simple shock: she thought he was home, somewhere, or in his room, doing whatever it is that he does--but then there's fright, and concern, and she fears the worst.*
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Date: 2011-04-15 11:03 pm (UTC)A little more of the book and she's suitably drowsy to give the music box another try. After carefully marking her place with a green ribbon, she rises and steps lightly out of the parlor and into the hall, ready to mount the stairs. But once Reg enters, and collapses, her pale hands fly up to her mouth and her eyes become huge. First it's out of simple shock: she thought he was home, somewhere, or in his room, doing whatever it is that he does--but then there's fright, and concern, and she fears the worst.*
--Regulus, what--