Descole stared off the balcony of his hotel suite at the gently falling snow. He wasn't wearing his mask and the flakes of ice stung his uncovered nose. The Frenchman's cheeks had turned a chilled shade of rose from standing in the cold, and his brown cape was flecked with frost.

Music carried on the breeze through the windswept park he pondered over. It was late Christmas Eve and there was a celebration he could hear on the hotel's lower floors. All over London families, children and adults alike were preparing for the festivities of the next day. They would be opening gifts in- he glanced at the clock tower- three hours or so, for the ones who couldn't wait until tomorrow.

Such spoiled things they were, children. Whether the deserved it or not they would get gifts from parents disguised as Father Christmas. Descole grinned silently, polecat-esque under his hat. He had nothing against the holiday, loved it, actually, just disliked children. They didn't get enough policing these days.

Grey eyes glowing, the man gripped the balcony's railing and shoved the thought away. Right now his work was focused on Layton. Stopping Layton, particularly, from ruining his plans. Descole wasn't standing in the wind chilled evening for the scenery, oh no, he was plotting.

He glanced away from the lit trees and at his hands. With a little shock he realized they were white knuckled because he was gripping the rail much too hard. Standing up straight again, Descole regained his composure. Hershel, that troublemaker, was tearing him apart to the point that he was losing control. It unnerved the man, really, that such anger could come from failure.

He smiled again and went in out of the cold. The sounds of the party downstairs were soothing. But not soothing enough. He needed a break. Maybe it wasn't anger at all, but the isolation simply getting to him. Being so separate from everyone else can do things to one's mind.

Descole chuckled and, still smiling a little, put on his mask and left his room to join the party downstairs. He would warm himself by the fire and let that useless anger melt away. Grab a cup of tea and a vanilla wafer, maybe. Or, better yet, a candy cane to stir around in his tea and give it a sweet minty bite. He let the smell of cinnamon and wood smoke envelope him as he went down the halls and sighed. Fury wasn't worth his time now. It was Christmas Eve, after all.