Two weeks. It had been two whole weeks since her argument with Peter. Two weeks since she stormed out. Two weeks of having nothing to do and no one to talk to. Two weeks of ruined school vacation. Two weeks of sitting in the Pink Nightmare Room and staring at..thirty shades of pink! How many times had she thought about getting a black dye tub and taking care of it? Twice she had one in hand and then remembered how excited her aunt had been when she showed her the room. Aunt Mags meant well, but it was just, so pink! Maggy crossed and uncrossed her arms over her chest, pouting. That's it, he's telling me why he gave up magery. She stood, snatching her cloak off the peg and recalled to his tower. If the aether could boil around her as she traveled, it would have, she was that mad. "PEEE – TER!" "Peter!" She stalked through the rooms on the lower floor, the crimson cape fanning behind her. "PETER!" Maggy took the steps two at a time, grabbing onto the balustrade at the top and launching herself onto the landing. She ran into his room, nearly tripping over the pumpkins that belonged to his brother. "PETER!" She ducked into the library, turned, and bounded up the stairs to the next floor. The mirror hanging there began to hurl its insults, "You've never looked better although that's.." "Oh shut up," she snapped and it fell silent. As she neared the kitchen the smell of cooking meat filled the air. Maggy walked through the curtains and there was the source, bubbling over in a pot. She lifted the lid, chucks of meat, potatoes and carrots floated in a thick tomato gravy. She could pick out a few of the spices used but Uncle Nick never cooked for himself. Her eyes darted around the room and there it was on the counter, an apron colored like her aunt's. A smile turned the corner of her mouth, "Peter". Winning that pie contest had definitely gone to his head, first a woodcutter and now a chef. What was wrong with him? Maggy went to pick it up and a new smell joined with the first...lavender? She tilted her head and inhaled. Lavender...and chamomile? Maggy looked to the closed door just off the kitchen, steam was seeping out from the crack. And she smiled again. "Gotcha Snotface," she smirked. Forgetting the apron and the stew, she stood before the large iron door, chewed her lip and thought. Maybe it was better to leave him alone. Maybe he'd regain his senses. Maybe he was just trying something different. Maybe. She planted a booted foot firmly in the center of the door and kicked hard. It shot inward, the metal slamming into the stone wall, the sound roaring through the tower. "YOU!"