It's only business, baby [cw]

“No.” It was a sound even she wasn’t used to hearing herself make. Almost pleading. Pathetic. It was similar to how it had felt to cling so desperately to him when he’d been the only thing keeping her from sinking back down into the endless waters. “No no no,” she repeated with the tone only failing further and further to stay composed and strong. As well when he wiped her tears, she winced as if it was a pained experience despite the gentle caress of it. It stung, like the nerves in her skin had suddenly gotten much more sensitive. Like a sunburn, in a way. Or like having endured large accounts of voltage surging through her body. It reminded her of what she’d felt in Cuba. It was the kind of pain that left the body trembling. But the result was much, much worse than the action. She could feel it. Feel the lack of something very important. It felt more wrong than anything else in the world. Unnaturally wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Saga barely noticed he had left her to her own in the bed until she heard the scaping sound of glass being dragged across the cold floor, clinking and clanking against each other and mixed together with his striding steps. He was in no hurry to get out. A satisfied man would never rush, after all. But he was leaving. Leaving with what he’d taken from her, digesting inside him. In continued discomfort she rolled over on her side and closer to the edge of the bed. Her body wasn’t pleased with her trying to get up but it would turn out to be her mind that fought against it the most, only it didn’t win his battle when she moved heavy legs over the edge and before long she stood on unsteady legs, looking towards the door. Towards the demonic man standing straight-back and smug in its frame. Back turned to her as he was indeed leaving. She let go of the support of the bed frame and she started towards him. “No! Don’t leave!” she heard herself plea. There was still a hint of demands but at that point it was pulled into the background. She reached out and then the chain didn’t allow her any further.
She fell like a log as soon as she tried taking a step too much. Her knees should’ve taken the fall but as if all luck had been spent, the first to make contact with the floor was her hands. Glass shard still in the palm suddenly pushed deeper into her flesh by the unfortunate impact and she screamed shortly out in pain before biting her tongue to silence it. Pitifully, she curled up on the ground, cradling the now thumbing hand. Eyes clenched. However, she still heard the sound of the door closing so close to her, the lock clicking in, like were there no other distractions from it.
Then as she laid there on the floor, alone in her supposed ‘new home’, she slowly realised what she should’ve seen earlier. Money would’ve have paid what he claimed she owed him, so why would anything of value in her shop have done that? What he took wasn’t object. It was her magic. And her soul. And …dignity. She didn’t allow herself to regret but as she laid there in pain and feeling all too wrong she almost did.

Saga’s eyes wondered around the new surroundings of the motel longue. Decorated as if it hadn’t been changed since the mid-20th century, which properly was the case. There was a sense of why change the classics as well as a kind of laziness where it was kept like this simply because it was bothersome to change it. To her, it was somewhat familiar, having lived through the time and she could only imagine the Calvin Ambrose too was old enough to have done so. Even if the man hadn’t actually owned the place back then. She knew as much about him. Another thing that stood out even more than the detailing of old chairs and tables – all empty except for one – and tasselled lampshades and grand stage was that her surroundings weren’t illusions. At least, not everything was. She suspected that things such as cracks in the floorboards or wear of the wallpaper or fading colours could’ve been hidden for the occasion this evening.
But the room was real. As was the table in front of her and the chair she’d been seated in. As was the dress she adorned. A gown made of robust, yet soft and almost matte-textured black fabric that, hugging her humble figure and making it form after the dress and not the other way around. It was snug around her waist and hips and with out it pressed against sore areas of her body whenever she moved too much, she’d almost have preferred the illusion. As a solace, the back fell deep and allowed for her raw, red-streaked back to be free of that discomfort. However, so was the neckline. Shallow and gorgeous with very short off-the-shoulder sleeves. It didn’t cover her mark by even a little and she felt awfully exposed. Even more so than had he had her attend this ridiculous dinner play in her underwear.

The previous days had been far from enjoyable. Horrible in fact. And it showed, now that she wasn’t clouded in illusions to look completely presentable. Blood and dirt had been cleaned and scrubbed of her – her hair had even been washed and properly combed – but there was no make up to cover the various coloured bruises or scabbing wounds from a busted lip and a tear near her hairline. Calvin was an easily angered man. And he’d been an observant one too. She still had flashbacks to the day he’d discovered the runes she’d been scratching in the chain. And the moment he’d figured her curse was a lie of mockery. He hadn’t said anything about it but she’d known. He was too easy to read even when her eyes were blurry and her mind wrong.
She cringed to a sudden sharp pain in her rib and automatically stopped her curiosity from going further around the room. Not all the damage he’d done was visible even in the revealing dress. It hid the abuse he’d turned to her abdominal; the broken – or maybe it was only bend? – rib. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to compose herself. Pretend she wasn’t in pain when she sat with proper posture and lifted her chin and eyes to the seat in front of her. His.

A speck of focus had been missing from her eye which only really became apparent as it returned to the sound of his voice and as if her eyes hadn’t already met with his when having turned to look in his direction they now sighted him properly and direct. She expected to only hear mockery in his words - Thanks for joining me tonight - and it was honestly difficult to pick up anything else in conjunction with the way he smiled and moved. Him being as relaxed as he was, was in itself a source for ridicule. You only really relaxed around a tamed animal. Or a caged one. She eyed him slightly closer. But was he actually relaxed? Before, however, it turned too obvious that she was watching him, she gently lowered her gaze to the food presented in front of her, while she said: “Thank you for inviting me.” She kept the spite for him out of her voice, returning it to its neutral poise as much as she could while coping with everything else. Her tongue peeked out through her lips to wet them, tasting the metallic aftertaste of the fresh scab.
One would perhaps expect her to scout out the different dishes in front of her to decide what looked best and what to choose but when she, after some time, enough time to indicate that she yet again refused to participate in a one of these staged dinners, reached out, she did so with a lack of actual interest and just choice… whatever was in front of her. She didn’t bring much to her plate, but it was something at least. Mostly it was food that didn’t need the cooperation between both the fork and knife. She made sure not to show it, but it was uncomfortable for her to hold things. Not because of the healing wound from the glass which she’d luckily gotten out after sulking on the floor long enough, but it was that strange sensation of suddenly being physical weaker than what would be normal. One piece of soul and it demanded instant readjustments. And maybe more than the showing him that she was in pain, she detested showing him the effect of that.
Again, her eyes looked to him, shortly, as she looked up and then did has he when noted around the lounge. “It wouldn’t take much to get a few brooms to sweep or the wall paper to simply mend itself if you allowed me to use magic.” She looked back at him and both consciously and subconsciously moved her leg so it make the chain around it rattle and make itself known. She knew well that such a thing wouldn’t happen. Only in his illusions had she been free from the chain and then it had still been firming attached in reality. Besides, he had fallen for something similar. She didn’t give the man much credit out of sheer dislike and lack of respect but of course he wasn’t an idiot. She lowered her eyes from him once more and this time took a very soft grip around her utensils. “At first I appreciated the silence but I’ve slowly started to miss the spectres,” she then answered when spiking a crispy, golden square of potato or parsnip. “But the bed is appreciated.” Rather than being mounted on the wall as had been the case before the switch.

Intentionally slowly, the little witch moved her fork to her mouth and ate that first piece of food. She had eaten before in the last few days. That part of her that had rather wanted to die of starvation than to appeal to Calvin’s wants had reformed to a new kind of defiance. One that wouldn’t want to be weaker than he left her. But while he would’ve found less food on what he brought her when returning later, she hadn’t eaten in front of him. “What is the occasion, Ambrose?” she asked as she lowered her fork to the plate and raised her eyes to him. It did intrigue her. To him, his illusions were as much an extensions as magic was to her. And yet.. “Until now you haven’t much cared and now you’re having be washed and put in a dress.” What was he planning?

Saga’s pale rosy lips parted hurryingly, yet delicately as if to say something. As if to argue against his claims of the loneliness, he guessed, she must’ve felt without the ghosts keeping her time without Calvin’s interference occupied. But then as no sound left her throat and no words rolls off her tongue, she closed gently closed her mouth again. Was it possible to start feeling lonely when one was already submerged as deeply in the feeling as the little witch was? Loneliness was as much a part of her as the sound of her voice and the prints on her fingertips. A default in her creation; despite the actual impossibility of something like that. “No. Not lonely. Solitary,” she replied as the words finally came, however they were much more poised and bluntly spoken than they would’ve had they arrived the first time her mouth had been ready to let them out. The words had also had a chance to change from the originals. Forlorn having been one of them but she had caught on to the unwanted feeling of admitting defeat when the word had passed her mind in its hast. Forlorn; not cared for. Still, it felt more fitting than lonely.

As a rule to live by, Saga always expected people to answer her questions and she expected them to answer truthfully. An incredible arrogant trait to carry but to her it was as natural and preprogramed in her being as plants were to convert sunlight to nourishment. She didn’t ask questions just for the sake of it and, quite simple-mindedly, she partially didn’t understand why she should expect anything else. But at the same time, she had such a poor opinion of this demon that she was met with the feeling of surprise as he… did what she usually expected without thought. And he didn’t just answer her, he opened up. Every fibre should’ve called him out for lying, for pretending or preforming the sincerity in his voice and words; in his eyes. However, they didn’t do that. Did she feel any kind of sympathy for him? Absolutely not. He didn’t wish to go to Hell? She didn’t wish to sit at this table with him..
It was with a slight offence taken from his blatant double standards, that she moved her attention back to the plate in front of her, seemingly expressing how disinterested she, at that moment in time, was in giving him the same courtesy to reply whatever upcoming question he had for her. She made move to cut a smaller piece of meat, only the knife nor fork had barely lifted off from the rest on the plate’s edge when the question had her movement gently stop in its midst for a second or so.

It wasn’t exactly a chuckle, it never really got to that extent, but after a few seconds where she hadn’t moved and her face hadn’t spoiled any distinct feelings, the corners of her mouth pulled upwards in a delicate, ironically humoured smile together with a soundless and dry – well - chuckle. She suddenly remembered having asked if her neutrality bothered him. Apparently, in a way… it did. “You believe there to be a trick to it?” she asked at first, letting go of the utensils after resting them again with a soft clink against the porcelain. Blue eyes looked up and into his. “How you’re convinced that I did something intentionally to get close to - I’m presuming you’re talking about Michael – makes it clear of your chances of understanding how. How did I get close? I talked to him. As an equal. Treated him how he made himself deserving of in my presence.” It was unavoidable for her thoughts to not wander towards the arch angel then. Any deeper development between the two had halted before she had ended in the cruel and painful hands of Calvin. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel disappointed about Michael having been near but don’t nothing to help her out. First off, this was her problem to get out of. Secondly, why should he have? He had no obligation.
Her eyes scouted her own untouched glass of wine. He wouldn’t have drugged it, she had a strong feeling of that, so she wasn’t worried about taking a sip. She probably should. ”I don’t stay neutral by conscious choice alone.” She reached out and very gently stroked the cool stem of it, from the bowl to the base and back to the middle where her fingers played with the idea of gripping on. The feeling in her fingertips were still uncompromised, thankfully.

Saga couldn’t help but forward another, this time a bit perturbed look to the demon. At times it became very apparent just who Calvin was. Because Calvin Ambrose wasn’t a mindless attacker nor a psychotic pervert of the flesh. He wasn’t above or afraid of using brute violence but it wasn’t his goal to beat his victims to a pulp and he hadn’t strapped her to a table and tortured her nerves with tools. He was a predator of the mind. And he was possibly one of the worst ones with how he changed to smoothly from hidden manipulation to the blatancy he suddenly showed then. From the question to the way he sat, hands folded. She hadn’t been fooled to think any differently but she had felt the casual feeling of this dinner that she was sure he’d wanted her to. And it was those micro-emotions that he controlled. Those barely-there shifts in her. “Apart from this constant feeling of disconnect and erroneous? That you know me the way you do make me disgusted.” So much bitterness in her words that didn’t even stroked up against the monotone voice she use to speak them. The bitterness even managed to stay out of her thoughts.

It wasn’t necessary for the mental bond to go both ways for her to guess the disappointment that followed her big reveal. After all, the demon hadn’t believe her stand very much over the course of their engagement. He wanted her to be the picture that he had of her in his head. He wanted her to be a witch, someone manipulative and cunning and while many of the adjective could very well fit unto her, she still had a different sort of core. Not to mention that his motivation was entirely different than hers and with that; of course he wouldn’t be able to make an angel view him as an equal. Where she never needed people to do so, he did; for survival. If she did, then she knew how to play pretend but that hadn’t been what he’d asked from her, now was it.
Her fingers quickly pulled away from the stem of the fine glass the moment he pulled some of her mental privacy out in the open. Instinct had fear for the glass, if her hand instead had gotten a chance to grasp around it and instinct also stopped her from substituting it with clenching her fist tight and kept it at a spasm in the hand instead. Sadly, it hadn’t been fast enough to hide he reaction completely. Her breath had caught and her cheeks had tightened. Stay out.. “Of course.” She slowly looked up and allowed his eyes to meet hers. “Noone’s got an obligation like that. Noone is obligated to be saved. Besides, me being here has very little to do with him and everything to do with you. As well as my choice to get involved.” She lowered her gaze again and looked to her hand, that was now shaking in the pain the suddenly movement had caused to run from the horribly healed wound in her palm and up through her arm. Carefully she turned the hand just enough to see the red-crusted slit from an earlier penetration of glass. She was supposed to heal fast than this. Even without magic. And yet.. “Upon the end of Cuba, Michael and I parted ways as a return to strangers. You wouldn’t be entitled to hold it against a stranger for not saving you.” Particularly not if they were unware.

She had been about to look up at him when he eyes had caught the empty space in front of him. He hadn’t plated himself any of the dinner that had been prepared for them, it would seem. “You aren’t eating?” she pointed out, questioningly. She didn’t recall if he’d eaten the other times they’d sat at a fancy table and had the cue to play similar scenes as this one. What was he even trying to replicate? Romantic dates or business meetings? The ambiance of the night - despite the decay - told of the former.

She hadn’t thought he’d understand. She’d only met very few you had seemed like they did and upon his first response she became aware that he wasn’t one of them. Michael hadn’t been one either even when she’d made attempts to explain it deeper. Could there perhaps have been something she hadn’t understood about him; his way of thinking? Something that made it impossible to cater to her wish to stay and see it out. Properly. It surprised her that thoughts that had never actually been prone to cross her mind suddenly came to her then. Of all times. It wasn’t natural for her mind to follow such empathic paths, really. She sympathized; she wasn’t devoid of empathy. But it was a little different for her to doubt so subjectively. It always made little sense to her when people didn’t understand so her conclusions always weight on her being in the right. Calvin redeem a little bit, though, when he added his but to the conversation and she looked up at him with interested pique. “Exactly.”
He’d hit the nail very close on the head. Actually, he had probably hit it on the head, just a smidge off centre because underneath it all, all of her equilibrium or contentment, was a foundation built on avoiding disappointment. She’d just gotten so accustom to that way of living that it no longer was a conscious state. Having it brought to thought, she turned her head to look away again, only to stop as he spoke further and instinctively pulled her attention right back him, getting a short glimpse of his side profile before he turned back too and their eyes met. At least it hadn’t gotten as far that she feared looking into his eyes. Unlike the smallest of flinch when he’d grabbed her hand, his gaze didn’t bring out that kind of reaction. Instead, like how she’d moved her hand slightly back after he’d let go to indicated how she didn’t want him doing it again, she often denied him eye contact out of spite. Not now, though.
The gaze they shared was actually rather sincere expect for maybe a sprinkle of befuddled emotion spreading to her face from a curl in her brows. Even she could see the unforeseen jump he’d made. “There’d be none,” she nonetheless replied back. “There’s a way to remove them entirely just as well as there’s a way to store them away as forgotten and then everything else in between. It’s the price that differ. If you have the means -” - then magic could do just about anything that the heart desired. In a way, lack of the means to do it would be its limitations. “The easiest would be simply to hide the memories which could be done so seamlessly that the mind wouldn’t noticed even the slightest different and start an alarm chain. Though, it sound like what you’re looking for is something permanent.” A cruelty not too baffling for the likes of him. “An easy way out when you can keep yourself scarce.” She didn’t say it but she did poke at the cowardice of it. If that was even why he wished to obtain such a spell. For less difficulty when digging himself out of the hole he’d jumped in on his own. Proudly when doing it too. She doubted he regretted the things he did. Only that he had been caught.

The bruised jaw clenched tighter and she had to consciously hold back from pressing her lips together while the sincere look in her eyes from before turned glaring - and anxious. She’d naïvely not thought how her question had served him perfect room for such a comment. Served basically on a silver platter. She didn’t fear his eyes but she fear that. His lips. And it felt like a pit in her stomach.
It made her look down at her own plate and the uneaten food still there. She’d instantly lost whatever appetite she’d actually had prior. He didn’t need to know that, though, so she took a deep breath in to remove the discomfort he’d instilled in her. Made the way she looked down from him defiant by sitting straighter, rolling the thinning shoulders - despite the pain it also brought from the broken rib and raw back. “So, you won’t be sharing a meal with me?” she asked before grabbing the fork and knife and laid them both, side by side, on the plate at 5 o’clock rather than having then rest purposelessly on the edge to be ready for when she wanted another bite. Even though she didn’t have an appetite, her body still screamed for nourishment that food would give her so it wasn’t the easiest thing to then refuse upon again. Not after having had a few bites. He had the control. No doubt about it. But he kept on with these things - dinner and punishing her for not eating - so he did care somewhat that she did which meant that she could take a little control back by making it his choice. He wanted her to eat on her own? Then he’d have to at the very least join her. It was a better deal than she’d even him before.

”I would.” Although her voice remained as lacklustre as always there hadn’t been any hesitation to her answer. No pause for extra thought to run over the question she’d been asked. On the other side, she hadn’t rushed it out either. Calvin had simply been right in his assumptions about her in that regard. Was  there one thing the little witch would forever be sure of it was the fact of doing whatever necessary for whatever goal she had. And indeed, was this the only resort - erasing the memories - she’d not think twice about it. But watching the demon and sensing his train of thought her mind wondered to something else. She’d kill just as easily. Of course, she could understand him in wanting this outcome instead. She didn’t know who this other prisoner had been who the grand archangel had rescued or their connection to Michael - could just as well have connections to the other archangel. Or Joseph - thought that last one, she doubted. But had it brought trouble so great to Calvin had he now had to flee like some cowardly rat she’d guess killing someone wouldn’t help his situation in any way. Probably only make it worse. So she kept her projections of how she’d get rid of her current enemy - if enemy was even the right term she’d use to his relation; perpetrator perhaps but much the same anyway - as mental words.
Her answer didn’t take back her discreet mockery from her previous comment. She’s just answered the direct of his question. That could even be yet another faint taunt. That she understood him and that she shared similar belief didn’t change her non-appreciation for him.
She lowered her eyes softly to the glass of wine on his side of the table as if wanting to preferring to observe the slight movement of the red liquid than give him the information he was wanting, now starting to learn how much farther being a little more specific would get him. She’d not intended to trigger her thirst like she accidentally did by doing so. “By burning dried and preserved lethe rubus,” was the short answer and she let it hang slightly in the air before continuing. “It’s a berry that is often mistaken for being in the blackberry family due to the similarities in appearance, however the extremely thorny brushes only grows along the Alaskan river, Lethe and the berries aren’t ripe before the end of fall. What’d be needed is only the tip branches plucked with the small and unripe berries still attached.” She found a certain sense of comfort in talking about magic despite knowing that Calvin could care less about it unless he needed it in some way and unsurprisingly, Saga would much rather be experience the agony of holy words again than help him. Or that was how it’d been in the beginning. When she’d been tied to the chair in his office, having been blatantly disrespected and then thought she could be threatened to do work for him. Things had changed a little. “Burn it in charcoal fire and speak the incarnations.” Her eyes found him. “It’ll - quite literally - burn memories into oblivion’s ashtray.” There was a way to also weave entrapment into the spell to burn the strings holding memories attached and then safely store them elsewhere but she didn’t tempt him with that solution. Besides everything, he’d need magic for any of it to work. And while he had a magic user at arms-length, neither would be allow her that relief nor would she do it for him. She still drew a line there. She doubted he’d ever be able to force such actions out of her. Surely she’d not ever break as much.

She must still have some luck stored away for this dark night since she, having adverted her eyes from him just a moment before, avoided witnessing the expression running across his face upon urging thoughts passed through his mind. Instead she was occupied with her attempted power play. Drugs. She looked to the food, first on her plate and then on the self-service dishes. Then glaringly up at him before lowering again. Regardless of the tightness of her jaw at the moment, the tip of her tongue slips out through her lips to wet them. Then she grabbed her fork once more - in her right hand, not bothering with the knife nor proper dinner etiquette like earlier. And as she ignored the pains of holding the fork firmly, she stabbed it into a squared potato. Then stabbing another one. And she ate. “…” She didn’t believe his hints. Did he wish to drug her then he’d not hide it. He’d force her to consume them like he’d done before.

The food taste of nothing more than – food. Maybe a little bland but that could hardly be because of Calvin’s expertise in the kitchen and would more likely have something to do with her own troubling physicality. The lack of soul. The exhaustion. The self-starvation. It wouldn’t surprise her to find out how rough her tongue had become from not enough water over the course of her stay. She kept eating what was on her plate and perfectly masked and ignored the pain in her stomach as the food found its way down in it. It was a different pain from the pain of starvation although there was a clear similarity between the two. One was a cramping while the other was like an acid. Both shared the stabbing sensation. It was only just bearable.
Saga stopped right as she’d been skewering yet another squared potato and instead moved her eyes – just her eyes, at first – to look at him. And as she noticed his gaze to her plate, she simply followed it and looked down herself as if she’d be able to see a faint sprinkle of some unknown powder on the food. Or a sliver in an illusion he’d put on it, hiding another truth of spoils and rot. She, however, still didn’t quite suspected him of much more than a con artist in regards to the drugs despite obviously being just a smidge apprehensive because of his words. And actions. She forced herself to regain a relaxed grip of her fork as her hand had automatically tensed up tighter to the sound of his voice and she felt the vague thumping around her wrist from his previous violence. The table was too small. Too short a distance between the too. Too intimate. “Witchcraft introduces you do a fair share of … it.” She’d sounded plenty confident in the beginning of answering, but then the metal in her fingers started feeling strange as she was lifting the fork to her mouth yet again. This time it just didn’t get a chance to reach her mouth as her sight demanded its focus on it instead of her taste. With brows furrowed in slightly irritated confusion she couldn’t help but study the fork. And then she looked to Calvin. Only for a brief second before returning to her hand where in an instant she dropped the utensil without hesitation. It landed right on the age of her plate with an ear-piercing sound – metal on porcelain. Or that was how she experienced it. She cringed painfully, fighting the urge to put her hands over her ears. What was this?! She didn’t have sensitive hearing. Not to this extent. It felt as if even the tiniest clink of a glass or squeak of a chair would cut into her head all of the sudden. Not loud, exactly. Crisp and clear! And distorted.

Big blue eyes shot towards the demon, expect for the fact that the ocean-coloured iris almost wasn’t visible any more as the black pupil had expanded incredibly already. He wouldn’t be able to miss it. To her, through those changing eyes, the image of Calvin was suddenly a strange one. His image had lost all colour and left him purely in different tones of grey. And not just as if he’d been filtered to black and white but the nuances seemed to shift as she looked at him. Still only greys but the lighter grey parts of his face would bleed into something darker while the darker greys of his hair would turn lighter. One moment his eyes were as dark as the night and the next, he had the brightest of irises. Only what was true black and true white stayed as they were. And the wine in his glass was the only thing of colour. Bold merlot red and stood out like a colour splash in a film noir. But then every time she blinked – and she was blinking quite a lot at that moment in time – she got glimpses of the real colours. She glances to her own glass of wine, still completely untouched and she intended for it to stay that way. But the way it stood out in her suddenly upturned world, made her reach to grab it. She shouldn’t have done that.
Catching glimpses of other things on the table that were not in her direct focus, immediately caused her influenced mind to make things up. Serving tongs turned to slithering creatures and sprinkled herbs turned began to move like small spider with thin legs, emerging from a finished developed egg pouch. Her elbow had unnoticeably pushed her white napkin over the table’s edge and as it pulled attention, she’d been convinced that it had bee a fluttering white wing of a bird. All this, and the enhancement from the drug itself, spiked her anxiety in seconds and although she could feel the glass on her finger – amplified – she didn’t have enough mind to properly let go of it the moment she deeply startled got up from her chair. She’d also forgotten how she wasn’t actually able to stand.
The fine glass started loosing balance simultaneously with Saga. Tilting forward towards her and warning against tipping over, creatig a small stream of red liquid that would eventually start dropping over the edge of the table if it weren't grabbed and steadied in time.
The witch herself quickly experienced the horrible arching in her one leg – a feeling that somehow also felt like cotton rubbed up along it from the centre of pain – and her body reacted by not even allowing her to support herself on that leg. So, she tumbled to the floor. The chair had moved too far back to have been a lifeline. Most of all it probably looked awfully clumsy. She cried out breathlessly and tightly bit her teeth.