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Deirdre Gwyneth McCrery (naturallygwyn) wrote in inpoormerit,

Nodding her head, Gwyn made a small sound of ascent at her new acquaintance's- friend? was it too soon for that?- thoughts on their current surroundings. She was a bit distracted, truth be told; it was taking every bit of her self-control just to keep moving forward, toward the church. She watched him head toward a darker shadow in the blackened wall, and then heard his warning. Self-consciously, she looked down at her feet- ah, good: trainers, thick soled. The would be more than up to the task of keeping her feet protected.

Her hands were another matter, and she wished she had the regular contents of her backpack. It might have seemed odd, but she usually had a pair of thick work gloves. One never knew when they could come in handy, and they were great for tree climbing. While she didn't have the contents, at least she had the backpack. In this instance, however, it was a very minor good thing in the grand scheme of the whole mad affair. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she almost missed it.

Its pages were so browned and yellowed that Gwyn almost mistook it for another bit of twisting weeds, but some of the gold embossing on the front retained its sheen and caught the sun's light, dragging her attention to it before she passed it by completely. Crouching over it, she bent to examine and then lifted it very carefully after brushing away some loose dirt and a few weeds. It was a book of some kind, she knew that immediately, maybe a book of Prayer or a hymnal. The words on the spine and cover- whatever they had been- had long since worn away. Even from where she gingerly held it away from herself the musty smell of mildewed paper was unmistakable.

She hated to open it, for fear that it would crumble to pieces, but a desire to find out what it was overrode any of her reluctance. "In for a penny," she muttered to herself, and then gingerly peeled some of the pages apart, wincing as most of them tore into clumps of mush and went plopping to the ground. As a reward, however, a whole page, its paper brown and black around the edges, presented itself to her. Her breath caught as a familiar line of text and notes filled the page.

Somehow, around a lump the size of the entire British Isles in her throat, she managed a few, slightly warbling words of the traditional song: "Rop tú mo baile, a Choimdiu cride: ní ní nech aile acht Rí secht nime."

A tremulous smile pulled at her lips as she stood again. "'S a hymnal," she said after she cleared her throat, resolutely ignoring the sting in her eyes. "'S very old." Gwyn carefully turned to another page. "Mostly in English." She gave a tiny laugh and shrugged a shoulder. "Doesn't seem t' matter where you wind up. God always has a way to find yeh." Feeling a bit sheepish for all of her sudden emotion, she glanced back at Cooper. "Have yeh found anything?"