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Oct. 13th, 2005 11:12 pm*The wake is going on outside, somewhere. There will be glitter, and tulle, and drinking, and funny stories, and general celebration of Meg Giry's life.*
*The thought of being there right now makes Andrew feel sick.*
*He has work to do. His desk is all but invisible under the piles of paper, the stacks of books, the odd dagger paperweight. Angel and his people will be dead in a matter of days, outside time.*
*Anthy's in the cells, and will stay there until they can find a better suspect. She didn't do it. He knows she didn't do it.*
*Andrew sits on the edge of his bed, his hands resting loosely in his lap, and doesn't move.*
*The thought of being there right now makes Andrew feel sick.*
*He has work to do. His desk is all but invisible under the piles of paper, the stacks of books, the odd dagger paperweight. Angel and his people will be dead in a matter of days, outside time.*
*Anthy's in the cells, and will stay there until they can find a better suspect. She didn't do it. He knows she didn't do it.*
*Andrew sits on the edge of his bed, his hands resting loosely in his lap, and doesn't move.*
