Larksong Grotto You're sweet, my dear

the scent of the man was painted thickly on all of mireille.
wordlessly she twirled beneath the open sky; she had meant to head off but found herself lurking near the grotto once more. perhaps she waited for kel.
perhaps she did not.
but the first stranger; she caught sight of him from a distance and grinned, unfurling a full cry into the wind that summoned his attention.
she stood against the skyline; mussed; wild; feral; burning, burning.