va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar

Arabella's never been much for small rooms, and she knows full well how much trouble she might face in the morning if Mr Whitlock knows when she slipped home. But with a night as full of crazy shit as this one's been, she thinks maybe one thing more can't hurt.

"I think I just might," she says, and Miriam's smile grows. It's the real smile, the one she's only worn for Arabella all day that says nothing about power and everything about things Arabella hasn't seen much of in her life.

It's enough to ease the burn of the silver at her waist as she steps over the hotel's threshold and casts one last glance at the moon, enough that once she's inside she immediately accepts Miriam's proffered arm. Enough that, as Miriam leads her up the stairs, she can put aside the familiar ache in the hinges of her jaw in favour of remembering the sweet burn of Miriam's whisky on her tongue.