Watson
We reappear by the gate, my father’s bloody crown still perched on the highest spike. I slide behind a trimmed hedge, but it doesn’t look like there’s anyone about. The grounds are quiet, eerily so, fog creeping low across the moss. The windows of the castle are all dark, no eyes watching. Even if he saw me bring her, it wouldn’t necessarily matter. It’s reasonable to believe I might escort her. Reasonable to believe I might want to.
She’s a pretty little thing. Her hair dark, but not black, like my brother’s and mine. It’s a warmer brown, darker than Damien’s usually is, sort of like chocolate. She smells a bit like chocolate too, not all sweet, but not all bitter. She’s delicate, but strong. A little flare at her hips, a small chest. Pale, icy limbs. Her face is a gut punch. Hug
