Gardens
It had taken her a long time to move from the ballroom to the garden, away from the bright tinkle twinkle of a place frequented by so many people to his place that was, if nothing else, quieter. It had been so hard to move out of the ballroom without being seen and she didn't know if she'd succeeded, if her half-shuffling footsteps had been noticed or calmly ignored as a seeming decoration moved. People tended not to notice so much, and what was she? Not much. A phantasm made solid.
Only now she came with a blemish, the string of items given to her by a man unaware of his own strength, who cursed and cursed and cursed the worst of words like he was giving alms to the poor. She could have, perhaps, followed the noises he made. She still had that left, but she was blind and could only tell the wall through the distant sense in her fingers of where the wall was. She stopped every time that she heard footsteps coming closer and she was slow to move once they were past her. Every step slow and careful, like she was walking the tightrope strung between life and death instead of a floor blessed by a thousand feet.
Then there was a door and the sounds of gently splashing water against the tiles of a pool. She avoided that place, easing around it with tiny, demure steps, a fawn amongst lion tread. It took her even longer to get out in the night area, where the sounds were quieter, sent up to the pillow top darkness or thrown about by plant and tree until they were distorted and unclear. It was there she stopped, the wind slightly stirring the strands that hung from her headband until they clinked together, though one flapped in the wind, beating like moth wings against tears made solid.