raconte-moi les cancans ... [margail]
@marie-a-bonfamille
The one nice thing that Gail could say about Swynlake was that she was able to spend more time with her cousins. Marie, mainly, since they lived together. Toulouse and Berlioz popped around with semi-frequency (Toulouse more than Berlioz), maybe once a week or so, which was still more than she had ever seen them in her life.
And it was nice.
And, alright, Swynlake was certainly a strange, magical little town where people disappeared, her cousin was a werewolf, a medium was elected mayor, and vampires ran a bed and breakfast.
For all that, it could still be rather boring. Gail’s eyes trailed around Hatter’s from their table next to the window, sighing a little out of her nose before turning her gaze back to Marie.
“What do you know about this Thomas Harrington/Anastasia Tremaine baby drama?” Gail asked, in French, of course. Sure, plenty of people spoke French in England, but this covered their tracks at least a little. “He is your friend, non?”
[outfit]
