xxvi. drowning
But she's so pretty, the child. Takes after her late momma. He shifts, cradles her golden head on the crook of his arm.
The sky is mourning. The dismal sea roars. Leaves fly on bitter winds; he shivers.
"You were s'pposed to bury me," he croaks. Swallows down a sob and chokes on it. "Not the other way round."
Brine drips down from his soggy clothes, trickles from the ends of her hair. Dark lashes on pale, unmarred cheeks. Her lips purple-blue, puckered, foaming at the corners. Like a porcelain doll.
A dead one.
Oh, but she's still so pretty.