October has left, flouncing out in a black dress that felt more like a shroud than her usual party number. As she exits, November enters. The bitch-month.
Normally as cold and precise as a math problem, November seems weirdly unfocused as she takes charge. Her ebon hair is slightly mussed, her makeup just a little smudged. There's an uncharacteristic run in her black stockings, exposing a narrow swath of ice-white flesh.
But the expression on her face is classic November, composed and unyielding. No warmth radiates from her jet-black eyes and her mouth is set in a tight moue.
She settles into her chair, all black leather and burnished brass; it's the kind of chair an expensive dominatrix might have in her office. November sits and grips the arms and takes a deep breath; the air in the room grows chilly. Frost forms at the edges of the windows. In the fireplace, the flames flicker for a moment and burn with a baleful blue light.
November drums her manicured fingers on the armrests. Leaves tumble off of the stick-like trees. Lingering geese suddenly take to the air, flapping madly southward, cold tiger-winds snapping at their tail feathers.
In her office, November tidies up. She smooths her hair into place and fixes her makeup. She examines her face in the mirrored surface of her obsidian desk. When she is satisfied with her appearance, she settles back in her chair and folds her hands together. She smiles, a slow, reptilian grimace and draws a second breath, sucking the last bits of heat and daylight from the air. Her exhalation is a stream of cold fog.
"Now," she purrs, in a voice like light bouncing off razorblades, 'let's get started."
November is a bitch.
Never trust November.