The remark stung. Ama had come to accept (and even love) almost everything about herself in recent years, including the body God had given her. But one does not go a lifetime of fussing over mediocrities only to change one's habits in one fell swoop. Ama considered body weight a mediocrity, and she hadn't worried about such things in years — but then in came Calliope Zabini — thinner, younger, whiter — feeding off her dormant insecurities like a leech. Ama did not even try to give her the benefit of the doubt; the catty young woman had proven that she meant Ama ill-will.

Ama only managed to avoid swiping back because she reminded herself that there was a reason for the new Mrs Zabini's cattiness. If Ama really was no threat, nothing to envy, then there would be no need to treat her with such disdain.

The old Mrs Zabini stifled a sigh. The high road was a lonely place.

She placed her handbag (which matched her dress) on the surface by the sinks, and rummaged around in search of parchment and quill. Not that she intended to share this, but Ama's plan was to write a little note for help and Charm it out of the window, or perhaps under the bathroom door. As she rummaged, she tried to ignore the younger woman's sudden show of poor health. Ama could help, but knew Mrs Zabini would rather suffer than accept aid from one she deemed a mortal foe.

Ama continued to search her bag, but it was difficult to ignore the gagging sounds now coming from three sinks along.