Knife at her neck and eyes fluttering closed, Mabelle barely managed to suppress a tremble of anticipation, unable to think of any reason to stop him, even the obvious. It was difficult to concentrate on Michel's words, but she understood the message perfectly. Mobius didn't want her back (the rejection of a father figure wasn't that surprising anymore), and for whatever reason Michel was going to let her go instead of killing her even with instruction to do so. She laughed again, finding the situation very Shakespearean, sending a messenger with the orders for their own death. So why didn't he carry through? Probably to prove some point she didn't understand, but she wasn't going to ask for clarification. No point ruining the moment.
As Michel stepped away, she grabbed at the edge of the table with her mutilated hand in order to regain footing, difficulty getting a decent grip between the half-missing fingers and the slickness of the pool of blood against the wood. Acknowledging the knife with a downward flicker of her gaze, Mabelle clamped her teeth down on the blade, smiling around it as she stared back at him with unabashed madness. Good judgment be damned, she always lacked it anyway. "I'll miss you."