Pacing, pacing. Calanthe stalks her quarters, fuming silently. To be sent to her room like an unruly child! How embarrassing. How infuriating.
Calm. Center. She rummages through her nightstand as she considers, perhaps a small calming dose. It works wonders for her patients.
A relaxing tablet washed down with a half-glass of chardonnay from the night before, and she reclines upon the chaise that overlooks a view of the courtyard.
Repair, or replace? The water lilies worked well, but perhaps the painting had been hanging too long, and under too much stress. She retrieves her tablet and goes onto an art fancier's site. Shopping always soothes her, perhaps she can find a new painting, or maybe a sculpture? Something marble, something solid that is less likely to break.
She seeks, as below, Wintertide cheer continues without her.
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