Marchande makes a note to herself to bring up the subject of the house the next time she's in contact with the Court. The coincidences seem far too malevolent. The work of a curse or a rogue Changeling? She'd have to look. But for now-

"Greetings, men and beasts."

And the newspaper ends up tossed into another of the stacks, Marchande standing behind Rose, peering around one shoulder, slipping further into shock as the video continues.

Gods and tricksters, the illusioned people. Close the ways, burn it all down. Make war against the gods. And she hears herself, several days ago, saying: close the ways, make them shut. Maybe he has a point, maybe if someone told him the truth, maybe if they worked together, men and changelings, to close the doors- but that would kill too many, the Queen had said, kill too many.

But it was a difficult moral-

"Kindling for that man's fire..."

"Screw him. Screw him where the sun doesn't shine."

Hadn't meant to say that out loud. Whoops. Slips in control, but if there's something she's learned from stories, it's that heroes get angry, not at their servants and their pets, but when something is so very wrong that it hurts. She stands behind Rose, by her shoulder, and if you were specially trained and were looking clearly, you might be able to tell them apart. Tightness, trembling, long teeth shaking. "The fairies are bastards," she growls, "And closing the doors to them... is good. But threatening the victims? Hurting children? Bugger that!" The room's too small for her, her voice's roll, the tightness of the suit, the sudden hotness at her eyes.