sirenspull | move one ♞ text.

[She has done this before. It is disconcerting. She had no memory of Siren's Port while in Nirvana, but standing back here, in familiar surroundings, she remembers it clear as day. She left. She left, she left, she left- it is a bittersweet feeling to be back here.

She left.

There is a lot to think about. But she makes on decision quick fast; play dumb. Docile. Feign recollection. Too much time has passed. Too much has changed. Hannah will not make herself an enemy willingly. She does not trust her voice. ]

I am displaced. I am not a special case, nor would I claim to be. But this is not where I was. This is not "home".

[A deep breath. She checks for spiders; she keeps her expression wooden. There is a part of her that is convinced that Claude will smell her lies a mile away.

No matter. ]

My name is Hannah. The pleasure is mine, whomever may read this. I am looking for my master; perhaps I am foolishly optimistic to hope that he is here too. Earl Trancy, the younger.

[Her hands do not shake. She is grateful, at least, for the lasting effects of Nirvana. For the first time, she finds herself nervous. ]

Good day.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Oh.]

Your room and your personal effects are as you left them.

[The great pretender: does she remember? She might or she might not. In this case, as in many, he'll have to wait and see how she responds.]

[She is on her way, movements lagged down by a foreign feeling of uncertainty. She stops at his message, uncertainty twisting into insecurity. This is a quandary; she is deserving of a great many things and none of them rewards. She does not hesitate in replying. At least, not for too long.

Her finger is ringless. He would see through any forgery. ]

Is his ring where she left it?

You will have to see for yourself.

[True to his word (for once), Hannah's room in the attic is still intact. It's very clean: there aren't any spider webs. The mansion itself doesn't seem very different, if at all, because Claude appreciates consistency. A commodity that's hard to come by, it seems.

He doesn't blame her, though. For disappearing. For leaving. This place is hateful, even though it's consistent.]

I will.

[Perhaps there is irony in a demon who is afraid of hate. Of a demon who fears anything, really. She does not fear Claude, but realizing that she fears his scorn is a sobering thing. She doesn't linger where she is; she moves faster, brows etched together. ]

Soon. Ciel Phantomhive is thorough with directions.

You've a keen sense of direction as well.

Naturally. I should dread the day when my sense of direction fails to take me where it is I must go. Should I report to you, Claude?