The whole building, in fact, was quiet. A little too quiet for Emily's tastes, pushing her outside into the wholly different quiet of witching hours and silent grounds. The roof welcomed her without comment, without familiar creaks or squeaks, and she sat watching a storm crash somewhere west, far enough away that it was little more than the echo of thunder, lightning flashes fifteen, twenty seconds beforehand. Lightning bugs drifted up from the dewy grass, signalling in tandem or in response to the storm -- lightning and lightning bugs. Mark Twain would have been proud. The urge to leave again, even so soon after she'd gotten back, rose up briefly in a vague breath of warm air -- so many places to see, people to help, she could be doing so much -- and she forced herself down off the roof, more subdued than when she had gone up.

It was a light in the art studio that rerouted her, and she peeked in to see Luce perched on her chair, lost in thought. A few minutes walk after landing in front had her hovering in the doorway -- she knew little of art and less of artists, but she did know better than to disturb someone in the middle of a thought. She stood with half her body leaning into the room, and after a minute or two of waiting, took a step in. Stealth, it seemed, had never been her forte: her sneaker squeaked loudly on the linoleum, and she almost pulled it right back in surprise.

"Oh, uh--" Cue helpless shrug. Emily entered into the room, attempts at respecting Luce's space gone. After all, the girls were friends; unless something had drastically changed in the few weeks she'd been gone (which, knowing Xaviers, was more likely than not), it was a slim chance that Luce would fly into a rage and order her to leave. Not that that had ever deterred Emily anyway. "Hey, hon," she said. Her eyes drifted over the metal backbone-snake on the stand, and back to Luce. What to make of that, Emily had no idea. A hand slid into her backpocket for lack of something to do. "What's got you up so late?"