She questioned her sanity in coming here. Most of the people in her building, she barely knew. And having her pet cat as her only company...quite sad, in a way. "Patches," Mirabella sighed, putting him down on the ground. "I'll have to sit you down for a moment." The cat purred in confirmation, and promptly went to sleep by her feet. For some reason, she looked up...and noticed a familiar lump rise in her throat. The same lump that appeared everytime Edgar showed up.

Her eyes bore into him, as if willing him to come over to her. When he did not, it only confirmed what she knew...she was good enough to speak to when no one was listening, or when the two were alone...not in public, Merlin forbid, where some people might overhear. Inside, she was fuming. "Maybe I will have something stronger than butterbeer after all," she murmured. Glancing over her shoulder at the tabletop, she slightly turned, and grabbed what presumably was an ale, the cap already pried off. "Cheers," she saluted herself, and took a sip of the first semblance of alcohol she drank in her entire life.

"Good grief," she coughed. "This has a different taste to it." Gazing at Edgar, now in conversation with someone he knew, she felt her anger melt away. Mirabella was never able to stay mad at him for long, before she returned to being his long time unrequited adorer. In their first conversation, she remembered him saying his mind was "messed up." In what way? In a typically male messed-up way? Or in a love sick way? Now was not the proper venue to ask him such a question, so she stuck to sipping the strange ale, and being a mere observer of the barbeque's doings.

(dang, Mirabella muse is being difficult)


True love is the recognition of your soul's counterpoint in another.