The rebellion against a cemetery instinct to startle when he'd touched her was ice cold and an arduous battle, but, like all things dead and only here visiting, the stonewall ghost and her veil for a face remained just as dried out and hollow. No emotion showcased a portrait in the midnight gallery macabre. Corpse lather 'n Coffin grease collection still in tact. The only thing that perspired was her black heart.
"Viking beard?" the dagger of her chin loosened from the grave of his grasp and fled nicely from it like a black kitten having its fill of the moons attention. She couldn't help it, he made her smile. She'd abducted his wrist for a moment to move it away from her, though funeral light. "You already have a pedigree of facial hair," and then passed him quietly into the tower, having let go, shuffle of tomb leaves. She turned around once she was farther, hand perching on the shave of her hip. "What do you think it means, Mr. Gregory?"
Mr. Gregory was always a symptom of a looming bad mood.