That morning she finally found the desire to return to the familiar rush of the raging revolution in the city square, trying to find a renewed inspiration by watching the executions, letting the anger and the fear and the unforgiving wrath of the crowd temporarily override her own growing dispassion. Things were getting a lot more dangerous, not just for her or for what once was her kind, but the turning on common folk who only had to blink incorrectly to face the guillotine. It wasn't that she thought it was wrong or unfair, because by very nature the guillotine was invented as the great equalizer of all classes of men, but the constant stream of unnecessary killing left her jaded toward the revolutionary ideals.
When she ran into Mobius who insisted on pulling her aside to ask where and how she had been, Mabelle casually spoke to him as if she weren't alive despite his attempt to see to otherwise. She never felt too terribly betrayed nor demanded explanation, and even spoke pleasantly to Mobius on a few occasions since the loss of her fingers, but she always carefully kept the exchanges brief on behalf of keeping her relations with Michel… somewhat less complicated. It wasn't that she never tried to push his buttons, because it was always tempting and easy to do, and she enjoyed the responses. But the taboo subject of his uncle was not one she planned to revisit. So when Mobius had invited Michel to his new year's party through her, she was somewhat conflicted by what position that put her in.
Cheeks flushed with the cold and shivering, Mabelle pounded at Michel's door with her elbow to be let in, a heavy book of sheet music held close to her chest in one arm and a still warm loaf of bread in the other. She wasn't too sure if she was early or late, but at least she had shown up.