"Please", Nancy nearly begs as she holds her glass out to Abby. Tonight is hard- miserably hard, in fact, and the only way to go through it is, as anyone would expect from Nancy, drunk. But she's not an energetic drunk, tonight she's lethargic, keeping to herself.

There are so many names, and she wishes she could remember them all. So she's studying each placard, so when Abigail finds her, it's in front of the empty table. Somehow, standing here, seeing the names of those lost in the past year, brings something she'd never really spent much time thinking about home: her own mother. She didn't even know her name. Just that she had been a witch, summoned a fae, and paid the price of her first-born, and, likely, her life. God forbid she knew who her biological father was. But when it came to him, she didn't even have a thought to spare him. Her father, as much as she hated to admit it, was the man who had raised her, as awful and hurtful as he was. Even if he had taken her from her mother, taken her mother from her.

The second her glass is filled, she's drinking it again, her shoulders hunched, and her face pale, set off by the black dress she'd worn for the occasion. It only seemed right: they were witches, it was Samhain, and it was, for all intents and purposes, a funeral.