"No, it's not too personal," said Qebhet with a quick smile. "It was... ah, the thirties, I think, was the last time. New Orleans. There was a fire in a dance hall. People stampeded trying to get out. It, it was..." It was a Black dance hall, in the Jim Crow South, where Black prosperity and Black celebration were intolerable in so many eyes. Qebhet had always shied from crowds. It had taken Hathor weeks of constant wheedling to persuade her to come out of an evening, and then... "It was not a pleasant death," she finished softly, which was as gross an understatement as any she'd made.
The coffeemaker fell silent, and Qebhet retrieved the now full, steaming mug and passed it to Hecate, before returning to fill her own cup. "I, um, I can't say I've ever been shot, though?" She winced faintly almost as soon as the word were out of her mouth. As far as attempts to lighten the mood went... well, it had sounded lighter in her head?