Marguerite really was the first to leave the house. She had seen everything from a neutral position in the hallway, and she certainly found it perplexing to say the least. She covered her face when the house began to implode, in a manner of speaking, hoping that the thickness of her clothes would save her from the shards of glass and the like.
However, upon discovering that the doors had become quite open, the various bleedings and bruises seemed like a paltry risk. She ran screaming down the stairs, hopping over the various forms huddled on the staircase, and shot out the door in a flash.
For a moment she thought about the well-being of John, but she figured he could take care of himself. In the jerky motions of one who had been imprisoned for so long and had just learned to stretch one's feet, Marguerite hurried down the street, arms outstretched like, well, a madwoman. The first cab she could find she took, happy in the thought that she would soon be home to the worried, fatherly face of Bertain, and to a bath besides!