Pscipolnitsa tilted her head, her attention turning slowly from the children passing by and their happy-cheery-go-lucky parents, to glance over her shoulder. It became fleetingly brighter in Lady Midday's world then, her vision momentarily going white. The tiny voice on her shoulder, the bird, chirped urgently but somewhat passionless in her ear,"Lady, you have visitors. They... they're glowing. And they appear to be conspiring."
Miss Midday smiled. It was a soft smile, the kind one would find in someone who's just found out a delightful secret, in someone who, say, has spent too much time talking to a bird and too much time in the winter's sunshine and cold, in the summer's swelter and heat, someone with storms in her eyes and whose very existence relied on people's need for protecting themselves and their crops, from sunstroke, from working too hard, from losing children to the cold or to the heat, from death and from madness. Two thirds of the Zorya were within earshot, and Lady Midday stood, pulling her messenger bag over her shoulder and zipping up the hoodie that draped over her child-like frame. She began to walk, but in the opposite direction.
A small voice sing-songed down to the two two women, as a blue and green canary hopped to and fro between a branch of a tree above them. "Zorya Vechernyaya and Zorya Polunochnaya, Ladies of the Sky," the bird cooed, before soaring from branch to flutter onto Lady Midday's shoulder, who perched on a broken water fountain, cross-legged, several feet behind the women.
'Nitsa's voice lilted forth, as she lifted her eyes, canted her head and mischief gleamed in her frigid eyes. "Hi there."