She does. Opens the door quietly, neatly. Ever neatness and perfection, as she must be. Pauses in the doorway, face calm, eyes bright and cold and burning hot. One hand tightens, for just a moment, on the door-frame, the other hanging by her side, fingers curled just so.

That perfect mask of a face falters, briefly, then the emotion, if it was, is gone. No-one there to see it, in any case. She turns. Shuts the door as noiselessly behind her as she had opened it.

There is always room for her in Valentine's bed, after all. He's a strange soul, as cold and bleak as she feels. She likes him. Perhaps. . . But she will always come back to Delia.

Always.