There is the distinct sound of water on glass -- that hollow thumping sound that comes with rain on windows, the washing of cars, with shower doors left closed on empty showers. It takes Ariadne a moment to realize that she's awake and then a moment longer to realize she's staring at the ceiling -- white wash and spackle at the corners, used to hide what she's known all along are weak points in the sagging old building's poor excuse for structural integrity. And no, she's not dreaming, it's morning and it's Paris and like any respectable Parisian morning in March it's raining, unapologetic in its enthusiasm (again, quite French). There's a gold bishop sitting atop a stack of books on her nightstand and she reaches to try to push it over with a finger. ( It resists.Collapse ) |
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