What is Angus doing?

Angus is making coffee. He is making coffee because it is the only fucking thing he can do. At this point, he is not even sure who the coffee is for? Ingrid - maybe. Not that she has asked for it. Not that she looks like she needs it. He has actually given up trying toward out what is going on his...

No. Not going there. Perhaps the coffee is for him. He is better after coffee. After being woken in the early hours as Ingrid tossed and turned and moaned and twisted. After being thrown from the bed upon her waking. After being slapped and pounded as she padded, stalking, around the bedroom. One thing was for sure - he was getting no more sleep that night.

Working the expensive manual coffee machine (because if you are going to do something right, do it yourself) did have the benefit of cutting out thought. He simply let his body work through the motions and sank into a thoughtless oblivion. But all too soon it was over.

And he had to deal with... Ingrid.

(Don't call her mistress. Don't call her soul stealing demon. Don't think of that awful moment when they 'pledged' and the pale beauty melted into the strange, rubbery, elfin, waif; the creature to which the very shadows stuck like tar. Do try to remember the face of the woman. He had drawn her often enough - but now those memories seemed so distant...)

Ingrid sits at the little table on their tiny patio, out the back in their minuscule garden. She has wrapped herself in a blanket and is smoking again: thick, ghastly, clouds of silvery vapour wreath her like a crown. She is glistening and Angus can't tell if thats part of her natural look of if she really is sweating like a pig.

He is too afraid to ask.

The Artist has been eaten by his model. Only the slave remains, mute and humble. Waiting by the door with a steaming mug for his Queen's call.

This is set right after Guilty of Dreaming (Bloodsport).