Agatha was never the biggest fan of Jazz— of the slow tunes. But as she grew slowly more tipsy, the gentle, smooth tunes began to flow through her ears, lulling her into a false sense of security— of safety.

She leaned slightly against the countertop, holding a small, embroidered flask of her own home-brewed liquid, swaying a tad with each swig of the tangy liquid.

She was still aware of her surroundings, of course, her predicament, but she was allowing herself to be calm, just this once. She tapped her blackened fingers against the wood, nails slightly digging into the rings as she settled.

She leaned down, her forehead again at the splintering wood, the slight lull lingering in her mind, her eyes closed as she let the smooth music fill her music, fill her senses.

.. even such an evil woman deserves a moment of peace, does she not?