Day: the breeze dances in and the sea stretches out before her, bright as silver and crinkled like crêpe paper.
She remembers brushing that hair, feeling it ripple through her fingers. She remembers the pearls, how warm they were when she undid the clasp, and felt the down at the nape of the neck.
She can hear that laughter in the breeze, almost.
Night: the wind kicks up, moaning, into a gale, and the sea crashes against the rocks. She hears a cry, a howl of fury, pain, and perhaps triumph. Not that it matters what the ingredients are; together, they make a summons. She rises: she never dawdles, not for her. Justice must be done; her hands are the only ones with the power to do it.
She remembers brushing that hair, feeling it ripple through her fingers. She remembers the pearls, how warm they were when she undid the clasp, and felt the down at the nape of the neck.
She can hear that laughter in the breeze, almost.
Night: the wind kicks up, moaning, into a gale, and the sea crashes against the rocks. She hears a cry, a howl of fury, pain, and perhaps triumph. Not that it matters what the ingredients are; together, they make a summons. She rises: she never dawdles, not for her. Justice must be done; her hands are the only ones with the power to do it.
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