Morgause is back in her room again, wrapped in her silky red robe, her hair braided for the night; but she's not in bed. She sits by the window, her head resting against the glass, not really looking at anything in particular.

There's a late snow on the ground outside, but mostly it's grey weather. Sagramore has gone, wherever he's off to, and it's quiet in the household, except for the baby.

All of which is entirely too familiar.

So Morgause is pacing the hallways. At least the Mansion, unlike her husband's house, has a plenty of those.

It's begun to snow, light but steady. Morgause has ensconced herself in one of the theoretically innumerable small sitting rooms, where a good fire is burning. She has sewing by her; clothes for Hero's son, who is going on a year now, out of a gown she wore once and rejected, back when the closets as well as the cupboards were bottomless ( Read more... )

Morgause is in her room again today, sewing, of all innocuous things; Hero's baby is growing out of his clothes, and it's something to do, something to keep her hands and eyes busy. It is not, however, terrifically interesting.

ooc: A little birdie told me that Arthur wants to meet his long-lost sister. >:) So he can post here, along with any ( Read more... )

The summer evening is well on toward dark. Morgause is in the bedchamber in her nightgown, her hair already done in its single bedtime braid. She is talking softly to her eight-year-old eldest, standing soberly at her knee.

This has not been Morgause's week, and the end of it finds her lying on her bed in her thin summer nightdress, with her unbound hair scattered around her and her face buried in her arms.

Morgause sits on the broad edge of the fountain in the midst of the gardens, her dark head bowed and her shoulders heaving. Despite the heat, her hands are clammy white. She pays no attention to the darting fish in the water behind her.

She's recovered from Jaenelle's latest gaffe, and found her way back to her room in a state of strange melancholy. She throws her windows open to the setting sun, and stands there awhile; then falls to pacing.

Morgause has dismissed Hero for the night, and is sitting on her bed in her nightrobe, with her hair in plaits. The room is dark, except for a faint glimmer from the fireplace.

Morgause is in her room, the dark red robe tied loosely over her nightdress, her hair still in its nightly plaits; she is sitting by the window, with coffee. All Sagramore's fault, that.

Anyone brave enough to knock is welcome to bother her.