Lion Head Mesa snowlands

The palace carries a silver sheen from a recent flurry of snow, and a softness that otherwise did not fit with what Nazli remembered; but there came the sound of crying, too, and this felt apt, and this drew her from the rooms where children slept.
Once a mother, then a nurse maid, it was difficult to turn off that maternal instinct. Nazli moved further until she saw a crumpled figure and sank beside them, thinking perhaps it was a child out of their bed, perhaps missing the cenote.
Her gaze traced the offering, the feathers, the face of this stranger — ah, not a stranger at all, but a fellahin.
Nazli offers herself without a word, there to listen, perhaps to pray.