Every week, I seem to feel the need to announce that I am still (somehow!) working on this same clockpunk Pied Piper project, because my own consistency still surprises me.
I get the feeling it will be quite some time before the surprise vanishes, hah.
So then, world: It is still coming, and I am still not Libra-flouncing away!
But I still do not know how long it’s going to want to be, or have a proper title for it. Ah well.
Onto this week’s snippet!
Anna, left possibly blind and infection-riddled and fever-wracked, is somehow still stubbornly making her way through the streets, drawn by a mysterious music towards some fate she does not understand but cannot ignore.
Fate and necessity and momentum, however, do not obliterate the pain of leaving things behind.
She walked regardless, and she did not fall.
She could no longer see, it was true, but the song had grown exponentially louder the minute she stepped out of doors. There had been a muffling, inside with Peregrine, as though he had filled even her head with bandages or else used them to insulate the walls, and it had made her heart lurch as painfully as her steps in response.
But silence was death, and she would have her fill of death soon enough. She would simultaneously accept it and embrace this one last bit of life while she could; staying still and quiet would serve no purpose.
Better, anyway, to let him believe that it had been her own folly, rather than his fault.