She lingered in silence for a few beats longer. 

Indecision stretched out into an excruciating eternity.

It was the thought of the cold night beyond the enclosure of the tavern that gave her such heavy pause. She didn’t really want to go back outside. It was wet, it was cold, and it was so goddamn quiet. The only sound out there in the night was the wind -- high up in the trees or rushing low along the tall grass. And that sound was too familiar to the paradise she had lost. The paradise she had destroyed. 

But there was no solace to be had here. The sound of voices, chatter, and laughter, was filling her head and leaving no room for her painful reveries. There was of course the smell, the flowing alcohol, the cooking food -- searing meat, roasted vegetables, boiling broths rendered from thick bones. Even the cold tea that sat on the table in front of her. The perfume lingered -- sweet, floral, and comforting. The spice and warmth of the tavern were undeniable aspects of reality, but they were lost on her.

This wasn’t the place for her.

She deserved the cold of the night and the ice of a frozen tomb.

Under the table, her hands closed into fists. It became unbearable to remain, sitting there, pretending that she wasn’t a killer -- that she hadn’t slaughtered millions.

In a second she was standing, leaving only the shift of her soaked cloak to resonate as heavy, drenched fabric hit the wooden floor and swept past it before settling. Her hood had dropped and she didn’t bother with adjusting it, leaving it hanging behind her shoulders with coils of her dark braid spilling into the fabric. 

A single coin was left on the table -- a copper piece or something of lesser value. More, surely, than a cup of hot water and a spoonful of sugar was worth. Or maybe not enough. She didn’t care.

She picked her way through the crowd and made it back to the door. She had every intention of leaving -- of pulling the door open, stepping through, and disappearing into the night. But a voice rose above the rest, that same voice that had caught her attention previously.

[i]“Pardon me, alms for the thirsty. Something hard, please.”[/i]

Another pause -- another beat.

She glared over her shoulder. Golden eyes cut into slivers as she narrowed that metallic stare in the direction of the man sitting at the bar. Something about him -- about his voice -- rubbed her the wrong way and pissed her right off. 

She turned back to the door but out of the corner of her eye saw the gleam of red fabric, and her fingers grazed past a cuff. It was still warm. But the old smell of brimstone, smoke, and spice -- it didn’t bloom from the woven strands of fabric. The devil didn’t come to life, conjured from the most intimate parts of her remembering. 

No -- but she still saw [i]red[/i]. 

And before the better part of her reasoning could take hold, she had taken hold of the crimson coat, and in the most natural of ways, had tucked it under her arm and walked right out of the tavern. What exactly she intended to do with the garment, she had no idea. Maybe toss it into a muddy puddle, maybe burn it in a trash bin, maybe just put it on and cry into the sleeves once she pulled them over her hands. Whatever the case, she walked self-assuredly, as if she hadn’t just committed theft.