Who was this old man to berate her so? The cocky girl slid one hand over the pistols in her belt to draw his attention to them. The strangeness of the evening was already causing her to feel defensive, and his words fed her aggression. 

"[i]Mon chere cochon[/i], best they hold their tongue with me." she cracked a slight grin on one side of her face, hinting a suppressed wicked memory. "I did not leave France willingly. Like Napoleon, I am in temporary exile. [i]Rurals[/i] are not a problem to me, as I have dealt with servants my whole life. And I handled [i]you[/i], as drunk as you were, mere hours ago." she said coldly to the man who was already leaving and hadn't bothered to listen to her arguments, the bastard.

Then she wasn't thinking of this band of new fellows but of months prior, when she raised Mimette Dupont high above the ground with rose vines cruelly piercing her pretty white flesh; the girl crying and screaming as she was lifted high by her limbs, and the vines artfully following Eulalie's will bolstered by dark vengeance to display the bitch like a crucifix for her parents to find later. It had been that dark hatred that fueled the feat, and she hadn't any luck growing them in quite the same way since, but she was proud of the magic she had conjured. It was enough to tighten her chest and quicken her breath thinking of it, and her nostrils flared in memory. Exile was worth it to take the bitch down a peg. May she get worse should she ever touch her dear Michel again. The thought of him tightened her chest in a different way, and she rose and went outside to the train's back balcony to take fresh air despite the wet. She didn't realize her hands had started shaking from memory and confrontation until she gripped the balcony rail. The damp air was cool, and abated the flush that had appeared over her skin. The wind whipped the tail of her jacket, and she was glad she had thought to pin her hat securely. She didn't care what the mission was anymore, she just wanted to be anywhere but here and preferably somewhere in the quiet company of Michel Fontaine.