[/html]The sky was a soft gold, accented by fluffy, pink streaked clouds. Over the water, the sun was sinking slowly. It was picturesque. She found the whole thing beautiful and could not have asked for a better night to walk along the shore. For now, at least, the confusion and fright of the unknown was abated. When she had first come to this place, fresh with heartbreak and (as she often told others) moving forward, Cercatori had been a sort of haven for her.
She had learned very quickly that even such lovely places could know darkness. It had come before, and came again. What naivety had remained in her was gone now, and she looked upon the world with the same kind (if now wizened) blue eyes. Absentmindedly her fingers toyed with the metal rose, tarnished and losing its luster, and she let out a sigh. Things would be better; things always got better.
This thought eased some of her worry. The water rushed up to her feet but did not come to her ankles, or the loose and flowing red skirt above them. She had taken to wearing this, with its up-the-side slits, as a dual sort of cautionary thing—if could clear away tears and bind a wound, if the need came for it. She had found that both came more often together than she would have liked. It was a pretty thing none the less, accented by soft, jingling bells. Rosie had no reason to skulk about like some common thief. This was her home.
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