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2016-11-01 11:45 pm (UTC)
If only it weren't quite so dreadfully
, is the principal thought on Calliope's mind. She'd weathered many a storm in the darkness of her room under the orphanage roof, is perfectly familiar with the momentary heart-stopping alarm of each thunder crack close enough to rattle her bones, but at least she had been safe from the icy grasp of wind and rain, then. It is rather more difficult to imagine one leading negotiations with the North Wind when one's face and hands are numb. And when one has increasingly soggy skirts to drag through the mud.
At least she is wearing sturdy boots and a thick travelling frock, which is affording her a bit more freedom than some of the gowns tucked away in a trunk back on the carriage, but even they are beginning to get soaked in the increasingly heavy downpour, and she's struggling to keep the hems out of the worst of it. "That would be splendid," she replies to her grandfather's reassurance, striving for more optimism than she feels. It's hardly his fault that they were caught in the storm, and he must be as cold as she is. It wouldn't do to complain. But even so, "Can you see any lights yet?" She has her head lowered against the gale tearing at her droopy bonnet, fearing she might lose it and her hair along with it.
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