Camilla was in a mood. She couldn’t exactly describe it, somewhere between intense anxiety and irritation and fear that manifested itself by her snapping at anyone who looked the wrong way. So she spent the morning moping, and then went out and dropped a good bit of the Greengrass fortune on shoes she wouldn’t wear, a bag she’d likely never use, and some lingerie she was sure Adrian wouldn’t mind. 

Maybe it was that she’d turned 24, and thirty was creeping closer and closer. Maybe it was the pressure she knew they’d be getting soon. You’re that old with no heir? She could almost hear her fathers voice. Or it was the tension that seemed to be everywhere after the attack at the ministry and then Diagon Alley. Camilla hadn’t been warned, and likely if it were not for Cillian she would have been hurt. Once the adrenaline had worn off, it was quickly replaced with a cold fear. The kind that crept in, chilling the summer sun. When she lost sight of Adrian for a second at a party and feared she’d never see him again. When Cillian didn’t return her owls quickly enough, or was too busy with work to see her. And the evenings she spent waiting, when that black mark on his arm pulled her husband from her bed, and she sat up late, letting the fire burn low, alone with her fear. 

So it was only natural that she was a bit preoccupied walking out of the shop and clearly wasn’t expecting anyone to be walking in the opposite direction. The small brunette crashed into the other person, and fell to her hands and knees, sending the tie she’d gotten for Adrian out of its bag and into the mud.