Cedar Sweep like carillon bells, the house of Augustus rings

She listened, the sway of the water around her ankles hypnotic in its own way. She looked down at herself in the water. Solveig was not wrong, not in the slightest. Passerine never found a home among the flock, standing out as the sheep too close to a wolf for their tastes. Less directed by the shepherd, more dragged via a ring in her nose, like a bull. The attack dog of the Lord Almighty.

She wanted to snort just thinking of it. But she didn’t. Instead she watched the woman, noting her even further into her memory, noting the curl of water around her ankles, before gunmetal would lift from the water and focus across the creamy coat to the colors watching her from under the shade of a brow.

Could do with less brainwashing these days. She stepped up to the woman’s flank, leaving the water with a vigorous slosh.

If this is a murder cult, I’m not going to be happy. Too many of those. The biting sarcasm in her tone couldn’t hide the undercurrent of humor.

Expecting to be surprised. A challenge in the quirk of her wine red brow.