Ever since that moment of-- what does she call it, madness? A stunning lack of judgement? Wishful thinking? (Not the latter, when could she ever be accused of falling victim to the latter since she left the days of her girlhood behind in bogs and swamps of the Wilds?) - of whatever it is they will call it, that tastes like regret that tastes like Antivan plum brandy, and despair, and almosts, and almosts, and things that were almost hers but weren't, they haven't spoken.

Runners conveying messages aren't speaking, and Morrigan has her pride, she would lick her wounds in peace until she can pull herself back together as if it never happened. (It should be easier, she isn't good at this, the mockery sounds too much like Flemeth in the dark.) She doesn't expect a visitor, and the knock doesn't startle her but the voice does, makes her turn her head sharply and bite off a curse.

"Come, tis open, and tis only I."

(There is someone else, fortunately he's off at his lessons. She can't quite make her legs find themselves to walk to the door.)