She ought to have felt triumphant, to be pregnant with the heir (- she ought to begin her prayers for a boy, she supposed, but if not this one then the next -) of the man who had cast this liar of a woman aside. She ought to be laughing in this woman’s face!
But there was little room for triumph, when her stomach was in knots as though she’d been at sea and there was the stress of the door that wouldn’t budge as well. Nor did Calliope particularly want to give into this churning sickness at the sink in front of her; she pursed her lips, then clamped a hand over her mouth, wishing the tea-shop powder room was not so heavily perfumed.
Quite unbidden, leaning over the sink as she was and wishing she could rest her forehead against the coolness of it whilst retaining her dignity, Calliope remembered the other ghost of a Mrs. Zabini. A much less vivid figure than the Mrs. Zabini beside her, to be sure - but what had become of the second wife again? Died in childbirth, she thought. She wondered if this woman had ever met her.
But this was not conducive to - well, anything. Not least finding a way out of this situation, one way or another, but preferably without retching up any more bile. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the halfblood woman rummaging in her bag. “What are you - doing?” Calliope croaked out, refusing to be kept in the dark about their escape plans; and if she was going to be offered a handkerchief, she would like fair warning of it, thank you very much, so she might decide whether or not to accept it.
But there was little room for triumph, when her stomach was in knots as though she’d been at sea and there was the stress of the door that wouldn’t budge as well. Nor did Calliope particularly want to give into this churning sickness at the sink in front of her; she pursed her lips, then clamped a hand over her mouth, wishing the tea-shop powder room was not so heavily perfumed.
Quite unbidden, leaning over the sink as she was and wishing she could rest her forehead against the coolness of it whilst retaining her dignity, Calliope remembered the other ghost of a Mrs. Zabini. A much less vivid figure than the Mrs. Zabini beside her, to be sure - but what had become of the second wife again? Died in childbirth, she thought. She wondered if this woman had ever met her.
But this was not conducive to - well, anything. Not least finding a way out of this situation, one way or another, but preferably without retching up any more bile. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the halfblood woman rummaging in her bag. “What are you - doing?” Calliope croaked out, refusing to be kept in the dark about their escape plans; and if she was going to be offered a handkerchief, she would like fair warning of it, thank you very much, so she might decide whether or not to accept it.
