[ It ends with Galahad's boots as they walk out that door. At least, officially that's where it ends. In watching a good man, go to get himself killed at the hands of his noble intentions. She doesn't interrupt his conversation with the marquis downstairs, no more than it seems he was interested in interrupting her. Instead she waits, hand braced to the back of her neck, head tilted back. Eyes shut, weighing a million matters she needs to attend to and yet cannot do anything about. What matters and what doesn't. Which seems to begin and end with the Knight downstairs. He knows where she is, he knows her plans and this is the problem with letting people in, they come with all sorts of side problems. She needs to go down there, she needs to spell out complications, appeal to his honour that if he did not care for her, then let her at least get the innocent out - then they can get back to killing each other later. Offer him safe passage out, maybe. But there's a knot in her chest and there's a hush that is falling over the city. The late hours where no one was moving, no where forward or back that wouldn't cause too many question. Some witching hour maybe, as Whitechapel, always twisting over itself like a body in the last throws of a fever. Very soon, it seemed, the fever would burn them all out. Then they would see who was left alive. So she elects to do none of it. What she feels is - the weight, the weight of revolutions, of truth, of the clenched jaw that comes on swallowing down the knowledge that a good man was about to be wasted to the hands of the cruel. She is a queen and a rebel, a vicious clawed tiger true - but a woman as well, and she is tired of battle lines. Instead she takes a bottle of discarded wine left by her hastily leaving patrons. Takes the weight of dead men, and she walks downstairs, since he apparently hadn't left. There are few whose company she could stand at the moment. Her rebels with their gaping hearts and gaping eyes. So eager to rush to a death that she thinks of like an old friend some days. Fingers hook on the balustrade, using it as a axis to swing herself about to find him. Bottle held up like peace offering. She has no other intentions, right now. Her politics is exhaustion and her trade agreement is drunken numbness best found with company. ]Seems you've found your way to me too, Marquis.