<strong>Emily Fitzgerald</strong><br/><strong>Location</strong>:Paris, the flat<br/><strong>Tag</strong>:Sully, John, Maria (Kumari might overhear)<br/><hr/>The door to the last bedroom opens softly, and Emily sidles out slowly, a weariness clinging about her as, unfortunately, it tends to do.  The girls remember how she used to not sleep for hours, back in the dormitories, and they might find her wakeful into the wee hours of the night, softly turning pages in a book-- maps here, fairy tales there.  The insomnia impacted her studies for some time, but it seemed to fade over time.  By the time her door opens, she looks to have been up for hours-- it wasn't uncommon to hear the shower running an hour before dawn, and Maggie-- now Emily-- to be whispering softly to herself, or singing quietly to someone who might, or might not, be really there.<br/><br/>Sneakers dangling from one hand, she makes her way to the breakfast table-- she is wearing drab gray shorts and sweatshirt, unzipped over a green tank top that scoops to bare her freckled upper-chest, and her red hair is drawn back in a simple, uneven braid.  By habit, she pours coffee first and leans back against the countertop, sipping at the steaming black brew as she watches the others eat.  She will, no doubt, scoop up a croissant, or roll, and some fruit-- stashing them away somewhere for later like some refugee of poverty keeping stock for later.<br/><br/>She locks eyes with the three of them-- smiling gently before taking a long drink from her cup.  "Morning, everyone..." she murmurs over the rim before the next sip, then bobs a little as she takes in their faces.  She seems to be checking everyone's plate-- making sure they are eating, perhaps, one of the practices that she unconsciously, and persistently, offers to each of them whether wanted, welcome, or otherwise.