20th August, 1891 — Destiny Hotel, directly before this

The ball had been a bore, as balls usually were, but the note from Ophelia – purely by its appearance, before even she had read it – promised something worthwhile from the evening. Not that the note said a great deal: instructions only to meet her in another hotel room two floors above.

Having taken the scenic route up the grand hotel stairs, Porphyria meandered down the hallway looking for the room to which she had been directed, only half-paying attention; turning a corner, she strode right into someone else, and stumbled back slightly. At least she knew who it was immediately, from the merest glimpse of light blonde hair.

“Oh, November,” Phyri exclaimed, and while they had seen one another here and there since the Sonata, she didn’t think they were quite friends yet; in fact, she still wasn’t sure Mrs. Malfoy liked her at all, or that she would take kindly to the use of her first name – but Phyri had decided she may as well force the issue. “Pardon me,” she added, pressing her hand to the taller woman’s arm to steady them both in an absent-minded apology, leaping instead to the easy conclusion here. She couldn’t imagine Mrs. Malfoy was haunting this particular hotel hallway for any other reason. “I take it you got her note too?”

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