[/html]For Willam. Night, Folly Lake, ?? August. I'll fill in a date for myself later. :>
In the light of the full moon, she could see the smallest ripples in the lake, urged by the warm summer breeze. The cicadas kept at their incessant buzz, but she focused on the sound of water lapping at the supports of the dock and the dull, distant sound of the ocean just over the horizon. The lake's water was free of salt, but the smell was strong all the same, and it was her constant reminder that this was not home. The mountains were not far, but it was far enough, and even there, they were not her mountains, and never would be.
Sitting with her sprained ankle dangling over the edge of the dock and her other leg tucked beneath her, Cassandra sat quietly in the night, carefully sewing pockets into the cloak her sister had given her. The fabric was similar to that of her old one, and the feeling of it was comfortable and familiar between her fingers. The work was slow though, and her shoulder reminded her of her injury with every stitch and shift of weight. She needed to be the one to do it though; it was not Myrika's responsibility, and even if things were different, the pallid woman needed to be the one to assess and memorize each pocket's placement and position. It would keep her alive, however pitifully.
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