With delicate fingers Fleur pried about the flakey layers of her croissant, smiling in a fixed sort of way; it wasn't only the stiffness in the pastry - a pet peeves of hers - that dimmed her mood. How could she put into words the feeling of riding a blind horse toward an abyss? With each gallop she moved further from her goals: Gabrielle, Bill, and Victoire. With each day the likelihood of her sister escaping unharmed from Lucius. With each week Victoire's whereabouts became further obscured and Bill...
Well, that had long since been a lost cause.
Placing the croissant down onto it's wax paper wrapping, she pressed her silvery temples with her index fingers. "Terrible. Good. You pick."