When she wakes far past dawn she finds that her odd bed fellow has already vacated the premises. Ada sits at Mildred's desk nursing a cup of tea.
"Glad to see that you have finally woken from your slumber. It is a quarter of noon."
"Unacceptable! Why did no one wake me?"
"The nurse failed in her attempts. Even after a sternal rub you refused to fully rouse."
"Where is Mildred?"
"Campaigning on your behalf I would assume," Ada reveals.
"Such a scheme will never work."
"You have a better one?"
"I am an adult I do not participate in schemes like a pert school-girl."
"Hecate do you even remember what it was like to be a pert school-girl?"
"That was a lifetime ago Ada."
"I know that you like to chalk it up to the incident with Indigo Moon, but you and I are now both fully aware of the facts. There are so many layers as to why your character has developed in such a manner. Until you fully reflect, and come to accept things as they are I am uncertain that any amount of magic, scheme, or force will fully mend what is broken."
"You feel that the cause is futile?"
She shakes her head, "False assurances that we make to ourselves, instead of diving head first into boiling pain does not remedy anything. What we fail to face always returns to us. When you find yourself stuck among the brambles deep in the woods you do not simply remove your garment, and run. You carefully remove yourself from the bramble intact, despite the pain it may cause."
"Ada," she begins.
Ada wags her finger, "Hecate facts in evidence cannot be altered. Denial is like the color obsidian, it is useful in art because it can hide a great many things. At the end of the day it is a simple cover up, and all of the missteps that are made on an artist's canvas remain just below the surface, no matter how fancifully they are covered."
"I understand."
"Are you hungry?"
"Can you transfer me to my quarters? I would like to apply attire that I have not convulsed in."
"I will oblige."
Hecate arrives to her quarters physically unscathed. Ada dismisses herself, and Hecate collects appropriate tools to hit the shower. When she returns from the shower she finds herself digging through drawers to locate a hair dryer, which has not been used in eons. Eventually she finds herself sitting at the desk in the corner of her room looking into the mirror. She has managed to secure her hair with great difficulty. It comes to her attention that her nail polish has become utterly derelict in its duty. Ada's words echo in her head as she manually removes the black lacquer. She comes to the realization that black has not always been the lacquer color of choice.
Fuming in anger she sweeps every bottle of nail polish into the waste paper basket in one motion. She sits at her desk feeling disgusted with herself. Her rose color polish has been scrubbed from her existence much as her rose color glasses have disappeared along with any thread of innocence she had left. Her fingers are raw, and bleeding from the amount of scrubbing she has done to remove the dirt from beneath her fingers, and the polish from her nails. Her nails have been cut down to the stub. Her cuticles are dry, and the pads of flesh on her finger tips are caked in an invisible layer of grime that cannot be removed with soap and water.
The pit of despair that has taken up residence in her chest dwarfs her throbbing hands. The clock ticks, but it does nothing to mollify the maelstrom of emotions brewing within her. Her nostrils flare in anger as she adds her hand mirror to the pile of items to be discarded.
The memory is so visceral that it nearly takes her breath away. In the present as she can recall each minute detail of past horrors she understands why she would want every bit of it walled off. Her mind begins to journey along as she reaches for the obsidian colored lacquer sitting atop her desk.
The pain wracks her body, and as she screams she is certain this must be what death feels like. Suddenly the entire milieu shifts as loud cries echo outward. Before she can react a slimy pile of flesh is being thrust upon her chest. Her eyes lock on the red-faced lad who is not at all reminiscent of the fire-breathing dragon she has imagined.
"I've got you," she tells him reassuringly. The crying stops momentarily, as he searches for the sound of the voice that he has grown accustomed to during his imprisonment within her uterine walls.
Her fingernails remain unpainted as tears begin to hustle their way to her chin. She is forced to utilize a thin sand-paper textured tissue since she no longer has the ability to conjure up a handkerchief. Despite such a lengthy slumber she still feels utterly exhausted. Her body has been abruptly drained of magic and energy. In fact hope, and the will to live have nearly escaped her as well.
The tears refuse to cease as she contemplates her options. Her judgment is clouded by the face of a twenty two year old new comer. A man who has spent his entire existence being forced to deny every part of his origins. He suddenly appears behind her. He clears his throat in attempt not to startle her.