What Nancy is doing is even more dangerous, still. She's here, standing before the members of the Night Council, with Lancelot at her side, asking for forgiveness. Forgiveness that she's all too aware of that may never come. If this didn't work, if they chose to arrest her and exile her, that was it. She was fucked, cast out from her home with nothing at all to her name.

Her name that meant bugger-all to begin with.

Lance had instructed her to dress modestly, plain and young, and she'd followed through. With her hair down and untouched, and no more than a soft blush on her cheeks and a simple layer of mascara, Nancy looks every bit the scared teenager that she felt she was. She'd never had the luxury of feeling like a child, of a proper adolescence.

She hovered at Lance's side, the navy skirt of her dress flitting at her knees as she trembled, looking up at those assembled before her. She'd only ever met Sylvia, and the interactions had never been particularly good. She'd usually been drunk, wearing some dress a client had bought for her, teetering on four-inch heels. Now, Nancy stood before them with her peter pan collared dress, cardigan, and simple flats on. Her shoulders and chest were tight, her hands tight at her sides as she found herself wishing she could take Lance's hand. Lance's hand, or Cooper's- but he wasn't here. Hell, she hadn't even told him of her plan. He wouldn't have wanted her to come.

But she'd had to.

This was her last chance.