Good god, Lalla had nearly jumped out of her skin. A man was suddenly sat beside her, talking, and she started, the flowers falling from her lap and scattering over the ground. Hurriedly, she regathered them, setting them safely back in her lap and listening to what the man was saying.
Angels. He was talking about angels, angels weeping when women die. That was a nice idea. Poetic. Somewhat tragic. But it fitted. Slowly, she nodded, turning to look at him properly. He was rather attractive, and she had to say, she quite liked the fact he'd just... sat down and started talking. It defied convention, and she was all about defying convention. "No," She said eventually, shaking her head.
"My novel. Someone has to die in my novel." She looked back out at the water, fidgeting, picking a petal off of one of the blue flowers. "Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more. It's contrast."