→ (signpost) wrote in repose, @ 2016-01-14 18:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, cris martin, evelyn williams, wren henry |
[Police Station: Evie, Sparrow and the Sheriff.]
[She wanted to help. She knew she could walk around, and she knew she could look and look. She could put up signs and carry a flashlight into the cold night, but Evie asked Sparrow to come to the station, to wait there, to be with her, and Sparrow wanted to help.
It took her a little bit to get there, and she always had a sense of uneasiness around law enforcement. It wasn't memory, because Sparrow had none of that, but it was a feeling in bones and marrow. It was a song of warning, a dirge in the back of her mind and low and quiet. She liked to think it was only because of her work, because of the hooch, because selling flesh was illegal. But she thought there was maybe more to it, and she wasn't sure if that was foreboding and wishful thinking combined.
She wore a simple dress, one suited to a simpler time. A white wool coat and white shoes with straps, white stockings and her ringlets pale and winter, she walked into the police station and shrugged off the dire chill that walked its fingers along her spine like an entitled lover.
She knew the Sheriff's name, but she didn't recognize it from a shared past. Just as she hadn't recognized Evie's name, and she waited near the door until someone saw her there, this woman that didn't quite fit in this waking world. Gray eyes haunted, and she'd seen the missing boy among dead branches and frozen earth, and she worried.]