...Oh, gods no. [Cecelia remains in the other room, watching the honey drip in horror, the saccharine scent almost more overpowering than the sight of it glimmering in the torchlight.]
Move, sir! [she nearly misses the chance to warn him before that junk glorps him.]
no subject
Move, sir! [she nearly misses the chance to warn him before that junk glorps him.]