In the months following the new arrivals at Phalanx house, it had never felt more cramped, even for someone who spent as little time in the house as Cora Marshall did. Sure, she attended her classes there, working towards a formal education that she craved while being in an exile that, over time, had become self imposed. Outside of that, however, she was frequently out amongst the thriving city that seemed to pulsate with a life all of its own, working extra shifts at the cafe or spending her time interning at In the NOLA in order to invest in her career. And when she wasn’t doing that, she was often in the local library, working on essays, research, writing; anything to give herself a bit of an edge when it came to trying to get into a good school in the area. More than anything, she wanted to be able to pull her own weight. She didn’t want to get into a school based on a family name and the money that came with it, not after she had seen what that entitlement could turn a person into. When it came to her successes in life, she wanted them to be based on her merits, and on her terms.

Today, Cora was not at the library, the cafe, or at the office for In the NOLA. Today, she was seeking peace and quiet while getting some writing done, in the form of a graveyard where she often liked to go. When she had first arrived to the Quarter, she had been struck by the weathered beauty of the brick and mortar tombs. There was something morbidly beautiful about it, and it was that thing that drew her back again and again, posted up in the corner of the graveyard, scribbling away in the journal that she carried with her everywhere.

A faint breeze shifted her blue-gray hair into her face, and she pursed her lips, trying to blow it out of the way no less than three times before she reached up and tucked the lock behind her ear. It was only then that she looked at the people around her, taking a moment to stretch from remaining in the slightly curled position that she had been in for far too long. When her eyes landed on someone familiar nearby, she couldn’t help but smile. “Ben?” She took in the boy’s profile, the angular cut of his jaw and the way that he seemed to view everything with an angry intensity. “Hey.” She tucked one ankle behind the other, her fingers curling around the edge of the stone bench that she had been sitting on. Ben was one of the people who had been suffering in Monroeville before the breakout, and since he had come to stay at Phalanx House, he had barely been in the house. Not that she could say she blamed him; if she had been cooped up on the grounds of the Victorian style home that had become their prison, she certainly wouldn’t stay cooped up in a new place if she had the opportunity to get the hell out.

“What brings you to good old Lafayette Cemetery?” Cora’s palm brushed over the faux leather binding on her journal as she tilted her head to the side. “The Mayfair Witches? I don’t really peg you as a fan of the Jefferson Fireman.” There was nothing malicious or ill-intentioned in her face, and the small smile that pulled at the corners of her lips was friendly, kind, and most important of all, genuine.