Mary sympathizes with the Lord's plight... to a certain degree. The host of angels staring at her from above most certainly makes her feel ill. It is a feeling of both revulsion and love, the same knot of confusion and fear that always sits in the center of herself. A void where perhaps God should have been, but where instead a great and terrible nothing resides. She would prefer not to attend these sermons, but she sits alongside her pupils in dutiful silence.

She picks discontentedly at her fingers, prying back thin layers of dead skin. When she pinches too far and draws blood, the finger goes straight into her mouth. A habit her mother never did manage to break her of.

She looks up from her distractions very suddenly when Lord Valdemar goes tumbling past. He didn't seem to be walking so 'uprightly' now, and Mary a cruel smile. She remains seated a few moments longer, but her eyes keep flickering up towards the empty lectern, and around the room at all the watching eyes. She's beginning to sweat, and her mind turns uncomfortably over the little soul she is responsible for.

( But she is a long way away from that little grave, no chance to pour sweet milk upon the stone and beg her spirit be deemed clean on All Soul's Day. )

It is eventually too much and she rises, hurrying out of the chapel and out into the brisk November air where she stands gasping for breath, a pale hand clutched over her heart.