Cian was a tall drink of ice-cold water and Connie loved that about him. It wasn't often that he was made to feel short so he indulged in it whenever he could find it. He snorted vaguely at the idea that she'd seen him and thus had chosen his father though his mother had looked down like she didn't want to remember. It had all gone rather terribly, hadn't it?
"I think she would have chosen a different life if she had known what was waiting for her," he stated darkly, feeling that dark night press on him again. The flames licked the corners of his vision, torches approaching the house, demanding to see the witch. "They hung her from the balcony but they didn't do a clean job of it. She survived, tongue paralyzed out of her mouth, face purple, eyes bugged just slightly." His voice had become small, like a child's, that upper-middle-class London accent sneaking in again. "They don't like witches like us..."