Excerpt 2:
Rain put a soft,
wet hiss into the air.
The boots
squished onto the grass with each step.
The oiled and
hooded cloak protected the woman's gown well.
Her lamp was
placed on the highest step of the mausoleum's stoop, right under a slight eave
where it would be protected from the weather.
Cheerful and
only a little overpowered by the rain, Proserpyn's voice sang.
"Mr. Gregor
was kind to children.”
She bent down to
wipe some wet leaves and a touch of mud off a step with a spare rag she'd
brought.
"Madam
Junio donated to all."
She folded the
rag and put it reasonably close to her lamp.
"His Grace,
the Duke was humble."
She tightened
her hood over her head.
"Miss Trishelle
loved knitting shawls."
As Prina danced
and swayed in place, her steps soon moved with a rhythm that only played in her
mind.
"She gave
the shawls away, so kindly so openly."
One of her palms
extended to catch raindrops.
"She warmed
the girl's shoulders while smiling, truly."
The song went on
in this manner. In fact, as Prina danced about in the darkness, she passed
graves that had the names she'd used. Thanks to the lack of light, they weren't
legible, but she knew they were there.
After a few more
lines, her feet halted. Her hands slid back under her cloak, where they met at
her belly, her arms bent. She turned back to go to where her father's body
rested, where she'd placed her oil lamp. She crouched down to touch the thing
when she heard a voice she hadn't wanted to hear.
"You
couldn't have known any of those people."
Picking the lamp
up, she faced the opposite direction. There was nothing unusual in her sight:
rain, vague shadows, and outlines–her lantern. Sometimes, there was an
occasional streetlamp, but not much else.
It was far too
dark.
…She could smell
him.
The rain and
soggy earth's scent were forgotten. There was burning wood, spice ... and oddly
enough hints of dark chocolate and cherries. Did his scent change every time he
appeared?
Even though she
knew who it must be, she asked, "Who's there?"
The answer,
right in her ear, was simple.
"Me."
She quickly spun
as she repeated with a higher and more concerned pitch, "Me?!"
The tone turned
a little bit more impish, although she could still hear a smoldering hint.
"Would you
prefer myself or I?"
He might well
have been trying to lick her ear! That is how close it felt!
Shuddering,
Proserpyn continued to search for the voice's owner. He must be somewhere!
Growing frustration had her brow knitting, "Such cowardice! You won't face
a lone maiden in the dark?! Reveal yourself!"
"Is that
your wish, Honey Drop?"
Honey Drop?
Proserpyn tried
to think of another way to insult the man. She stood there, rain pattering on
her cloak. It took around fifteen seconds for her to finally say, "You're
irritating and useless. I've no time for such a creature."
She went back to
pick up her rag and folded it into a pocket, "I'll leave you in possession
of the dead, Sir. No doubt, someone must want you here."
Prina grabbed
her lantern and walked off, lighting her path.
Just as she made
a slight turn, her heart jumped and she retreated a bit.
A figure was
sitting on a rather tall gravestone.
He looked casual
as he did it, and this time he wasn't shrouded in black and blue. It was as if
he'd known he'd be too difficult to see. Instead, he seemed to be covered in a
similar garment of red, or at least Proserpyn's lamp suggested it could've been
red. It could also have been orange.
Maybe both.
Well, at least
he wasn't hiding.
But ... well ...
Proserpyn's eyes
followed the raindrops as they fell down onto the red and orange-clad man. His
cloak was so long that it covered the gravestone's front and quite a bit of the
earth. When the water landed on the fabric, there weren't any obvious signs of
wetness. Neither did the fabric reject the water as if oiled, as her own
protective garment had been. The drops seemed to ... disappear ... as if they
were falling into something.
It was a detail
many wouldn't have noticed, but Prina had been so focused on him that she
couldn't help but see the oddity. However, her senses told her not to give a
comment.
She stood there,
her arm up and out, holding onto her lamp and waiting for the man to speak.
Certainly, he'd
have a handful of more words for her, a handful at the very least.
He didn't
disappoint.
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