#poor magda

"Oh, it can't be? Clearly you don't understand how particular the Countess is about her wardrobe. True, she may be living in the middle of no where and hasn't seen the outside of this village probably since the 1950's, but she won't dare pass up the opportunity to look like she goes to a gala every night. And what do we have here?” Magda asked, pointing to the large roll of fabric that, to the untrained eye, looked pretty much the same color as the material of Alcina’s current dresses... maybe a few shades off.

Continued from here, @mother-mirandas-seamstres

The pain… it… there a was a delay. Magda never thought Mother Miranda could move so fast nor that her jewelry covered fingers could be so sharp. And yet… the warm, sticky, wetness was felt a few seconds before the sharp, burning pain. She didn’t remember if she screamed or yelled out in pain, though she probably did. Her face burned. She could see, but barely. Blood covered her face. The pain made her shut her eyes, which only made her face hurt more.

She collapsed. The marble felt cool on her cheek… the one that wasn’t flayed open. Why? She should have kept quiet. She should have let the girl go with Mother Miranda. Maybe if she was lucky, Alcina would come by, see the mess laid before her, and simply fix the situation by ending her life.

Me: o_o Jesus.

Me: ...Jesus.

Me: jESUS.

Me: jEsUS