UsernameEmailRegionInterestAOL IMICQ IDYahoo! IDMSN IDJabber

Nona loved Halloween, but she could not find it in her this year to celebrate much. She felt off-kilter this year, and was not quite sure why. Restlessness was a very good explanation, but she could not chalk her dissatisfaction wholly up to that, nor to her growing boredness with her Healing post at St Mungo's.

She had greatly enjoyed her house getting ready for Halloween, which included being horrible to Howell and now Ronan by proxy. She spent much more time dolling up Penelope, her personal property and plaything, than she had herself, but Nona had had her costume finished for months. A dab of colour on her lips, the sheathing of an old sword lying about the house…

The maze was painfully easy, but she had much more fun watching her friends bicker over the direction they were going in, when she bothered to pay them attention. Mostly, she was content to drift to the side, tuning them in and out as it pleased her.

When Oliver Comstock appeared before her, suddenly, Nona realised she had quite lost track of her friends, and didn't dare lift her gaze to search them out. She felt her pulse increase dramatically, skipping a beat, even, but attempted to tamp it down. No force was needed, as his words, brusque and entirely lacking in pleasantries, were like a bucket of ice water being thrown on her.

Nona struggled for words, even as her emotions pelted her in rapid succession. Confusion—what could he possibly know?, followed shortly by fear, and—anger, white hot and bitter, at whoever had told him—at Max, her blood and kin, who had betrayed her in the worst possible way.

She could not afford to let her usual obsession and fascination with Oliver Comstock get the better of her, not when he was prying about things that did not—could not concern him. "Know what, exactly?" she asked, striving to be cold, even though she could feel her heart pounding in her ears and her eyes prickling, which meant, most horrifyingly, tears were about to begin any moment.