BURN

Well-Wishers

Agatha is drowning.

The water doesn't burn as it usually does, but it is uncomfortable against her skin all the same, itching and tight.

But nonetheless, she is drowning.

She writhes and flails under the surface, struggling against the clothes weighing her down; the fur-lined cloak, the heavy boots. Her lungs are screaming, and black spots are dancing in her vision-- it cannot be long before she will faint, and she will be forced to open her mouth. The idea of that sends another lance of panic into her chest and she flails harder, struggling to reach the surface. There is someone standing there, looking down at her. She doesn't expect them to help. They are the reason she is drowning, after all.

A movement on the surface of the water catches her eye, and she jerks her head towards it, wondering if it will prove helpful--

No, not only does it not help, it's going to--

Inexplicably, almost against her will, she opens her mouth to scream.

She realises her mistake too late.

Agatha wakes up to the smell of burning.

She bolts upright, and finds she's singed holes in the pillow and sheet where her hands had been. Swearing, she tumbles out of bed and onto the rug, trying to hold her hot hands away from anything flammable.

She sits for a minute, sucking in breaths and trying not to dwell on the dream. It's not unusual for her to have disturbing, overly-detailed dreams, but this one is exceptionally unsettling, and it's lingering.

Biting her nails, she stands and makes for the door, intending to sit and draw some strength from the sitting room fire. The clock makes it midnight, so it should hopefully still be alight, but no one will be around to witness her without her veil or gloves.

Still, she takes one of the hooded velvet robes as she leaves. She thinks Beatrix or Dot must have provided it; it's got the Camelot crest stitched onto the shoulder.

She traces the dragon absently as she pushes her door open and peers into the corridor. No one's around, so she pads across the hall and shoulders open the sitting room door. Mercifully, the fire is still burning, and she makes a beeline for it--

"Bad dream?"

Agatha jumps--

She turns to find Callis sitting in one of the chairs behind her.

"Suppose so. Why are you still up?" she asks, relaxing.

"Thinking." says Callis shortly, eyeing her uncovered face and hands. She doesn't comment, though. She never does. She just looks pleased.

"About what?" asks Agatha, sinking down next to the fire and digging her hands into the embers, watching her veins start to glow again.

Callis doesn't reply right away. Then she says;

"Did you talk to Sophie, today?"

"Talk." Snorts Agatha, crushing an ember in her palm. "Argued, yes."

"About the King?"

"Unfortunately."

"What did she say?"

Agatha grimaces, gesturing to coax the flames into burn higher. It had been an unpleasant conversation. Hort had fetched Sophie himself, of course, which meant that Sophie was already in a bad mood when she'd arrived, and, when she'd seen it was only Agatha waiting for her, she'd known exactly what was coming.