It tugged at the back corners of her mind, a fact that she should know, did know in some respects, but had not quite brought to the forefront yet. It was much like the chill one got when their grave was stepped over, or the nagging sense that something of importance had been left at home. It was a fast moving target, one she just barely missed with each and every throw—not because she was no good at throwing, but because she was not aware the target was even there.

It was not a feeling that led her to her mentor's office but paperwork—understandable indeed, given their professional relationship. Still, the smile on Nora's features that often greeted the older witch fell into a frown of concern at how poorly Morwenna Skeeter looked.

"You don't look at all well, Mrs. Skeeter," she pointed out as kindly as the words could be said, the paperwork all but forgotten. "Can I get you a glass of water? Maybe some brandy?"

Swiftly, Nora's grey eyes surveyed the older woman—her pallor, how disoriented she appeared—and the appraisal was not a favorable one. Frankly, Morwenna Skeeter looked as though she had clawed herself from the crypt that morning, though a great deal cleaner, at least.