She opens her mouth to reply, sucks in a breath of smoke instead. She's not cruel — tries not to be. Maker knows if spirits can be wounded, that hardly matters: They steal nothing if not sympathetic shape. Called back,
"Madame Ambassador," A slip she wouldn't make under other circumstance, on any other day. Perhaps. "Do not,"
It's too late, of course, even as her office creaks open. It's been too late from the moment the spirit chose this shape (what little it's chosen, seems still to be choosing).
She tries not to be cruel. But clipped under her breath,
no subject
"Madame Ambassador," A slip she wouldn't make under other circumstance, on any other day. Perhaps. "Do not,"
It's too late, of course, even as her office creaks open. It's been too late from the moment the spirit chose this shape (what little it's chosen, seems still to be choosing).
She tries not to be cruel. But clipped under her breath,
"Stop fussing."
They aren't people. Another slip, another day.