This week’s Six Sunday is a direct follow-up to last week’s portion of my little clockpunk Pied Piper project, with Peregrine watching Anna sleep and transcribing the ravings of her fever-dreams out on the walls.
Now dawn is breaking, and it isn’t the only thing.
He wrote ’til his hand turned pink with dawn.
And then, as the dawn began to paint her own lips and dispell some of their prior deathly pallor, she fell abruptly silent. There was no segue into it, no trailing off of syllables; it seemed she simply could not speak such things through a lighted, living mouth.
She slept, and was still.
The first breath was a painful stab, as if he himself had spent the night not daring to breathe at all, and now must reinflate his own lungs, must fire up again and refuel the synapses in his own brain.