![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
( december 20th )
They meet halfway between east and west wing, between midnight and morning, the stairs leading to a dawn neither will watch unfold. They have beds of down and dust to which they shall return when the time comes.
Caroline Becker is waiting for the woman of the waters, her hands balled into fists and her skin prematurely damp. Cold. The fireplaces and cocklestoves do not live long, prosperous lives in this house. Should she wonder why? Her guest is see-through and hushed, her feet leave trails of mud across the carpets.
Trails that will be gone by the first ray of sun, of course. As they will be repeated by vigil.
"We are not the same," says Caroline who needs plenty of fresh air, rumour has it, and who doesn't awaken the dead. "You belong to this manor, whereas I was brought against my will. You have your own name to which you must answer."