The cat lay absolutely still on her back, eyes closed, front paws resting
on her gray chest. The last rays of the sun slanted through the long
vertical blinds and bathed her fur into a glow of gold. She was undisturbed
by the sound of a key in the lock which broke the silence of the small
apartment. She half opened her when she heard footsteps but began to
stretch hesitantly as she heard her mistress's soft song.
Her mistress always did have a pretty voice.
One month shy of nineteen, Verity Saunders couldn't help but sing cheerfully. Her life had taken a brand new turn and she was now secure, healthy and prosperous.
Verity set her keys down on the kitchen table and couldn't resist to stop and look at herself in the gilt-framed, rectangular mirror that hung in the hallway. It was one of the first pieces she had bought when she had moved into the apartment. The glass was old, and she had paid a somewhat ridiculous price for it considering the dark spots in the right hand corner. It had meant a great deal to Verity, however, to be able to hang it on the wall of her own apartment, of her own home. She realized she could have lived in a far more luxurious complex, perhaps even a condominium, but to Verity Saunders, status no longer mattered. Not where safety was concerned. With a small sigh, she took a good look at her reflection.
She had left her hair down for the evening, and it flowed over her shoulders to swing past her elbows. With a restless move, she tossed it back. It lifted, then settled, raven-black, and thick. Almost gypsy like, she mused.
Her face, like her frame was small and delicate, but her features weren't even. Her mouth was full and generous, her nose was small and straight, her chin was a subtle point. Though the bone structure in her face was elegant, her deep green eyes were huge and tempting. There also seemed to be a fire behind the luscious colour, that could only be surfaced by contacts. An exotic face, she had been told, yet she saw no beauty in it. With the right lighting and make-up, she was bewitching on stage, but just on stage, she thought, and lowered her eyes. The characters ballet created were just illusions. They weren't Verity Saunders. Even though, she thought and grimaced, Verity Saunders was an illusion as well.
A well-thought out illusion sculpted from impulse and pressure, but an illusion nonetheless.
She slid her peach parka off her shoulders to reveal her chic style and as equally avant garde figure. The young woman could reach 5'6, if she stood on her tip-toes. She was slim, which would have complimented her height if a past disease hadn't left her body savagely bony. A stereotypical dancer, she thought morbidly.
And yet it had been the love of the dance that had kept her going. New York was filled with dead ends and dreams, but fortunate for Verity, that state had been generous enough to offer her the latter. Since twelve years old, she had fantasized about being a ballerina, those goals finalized into reveries of dancing Dulcinea, Giselle and Juliet. For five years, she had put tears and marrow into perfecting her form, her grace, her stage presence. Sometimes, she would forget her love of the dance as she was involved in other activities, but once she stepped onto the stage, she knew where her heart belong. Favorably enough, so did her dance instructors. Those who would push and pry and fight for Verity's spot in the dance corps of New York, and would finally prevail. She would prevail. Night after night, toes raw and bleeding, muscles aching and sore, she would still raise her head high. She had found security in dance. Security that she had missed for most of her life.
Verity put a hand to her cheek and caught a tear that fell from her eye. Security wasn't everything, she knew. But at this stage in her life, alone or not, it was the most important thing.
She finally brought herself out of her daydream when she heard the phone ring. Almost tripping over her feet, she ran to answer it. Hardly anyone called her these days.
"Hello," the smile that came to her voice, surfacing due to happiness that someone had called, was evident.
"Cassidy."
Verity's body stiffened. Her fingers went numb that it was almost a wonder she caught the phone back when she fumbled it. Her cat raised her head in question.
"Cassidy.." the female voice repeated. Verity chewed on her bottom lip, trying to prevent herself from sobbing. It was nerve the woman had to find her, but it was audacity she had to call Verity by that name.
"I told you to never call me that again." the younger woman's voice was shaky, part from anger, part from anxiety. Why had she called her?
"I.I know I have no right."
"You don't. You don't have any right at all," hissed Verity, speaking before thinking. "Why did you bother? Why did you call? What reason could possibly make you want to give a damn about me, Agent Scully?"
There was a pause. From where she sat at her desk in Washington, D.C., Agent Scully bit her bottom lip and tried not to show weakness herself.
"Alex Krycek is dead."
Her mistress always did have a pretty voice.
One month shy of nineteen, Verity Saunders couldn't help but sing cheerfully. Her life had taken a brand new turn and she was now secure, healthy and prosperous.
Verity set her keys down on the kitchen table and couldn't resist to stop and look at herself in the gilt-framed, rectangular mirror that hung in the hallway. It was one of the first pieces she had bought when she had moved into the apartment. The glass was old, and she had paid a somewhat ridiculous price for it considering the dark spots in the right hand corner. It had meant a great deal to Verity, however, to be able to hang it on the wall of her own apartment, of her own home. She realized she could have lived in a far more luxurious complex, perhaps even a condominium, but to Verity Saunders, status no longer mattered. Not where safety was concerned. With a small sigh, she took a good look at her reflection.
She had left her hair down for the evening, and it flowed over her shoulders to swing past her elbows. With a restless move, she tossed it back. It lifted, then settled, raven-black, and thick. Almost gypsy like, she mused.
Her face, like her frame was small and delicate, but her features weren't even. Her mouth was full and generous, her nose was small and straight, her chin was a subtle point. Though the bone structure in her face was elegant, her deep green eyes were huge and tempting. There also seemed to be a fire behind the luscious colour, that could only be surfaced by contacts. An exotic face, she had been told, yet she saw no beauty in it. With the right lighting and make-up, she was bewitching on stage, but just on stage, she thought, and lowered her eyes. The characters ballet created were just illusions. They weren't Verity Saunders. Even though, she thought and grimaced, Verity Saunders was an illusion as well.
A well-thought out illusion sculpted from impulse and pressure, but an illusion nonetheless.
She slid her peach parka off her shoulders to reveal her chic style and as equally avant garde figure. The young woman could reach 5'6, if she stood on her tip-toes. She was slim, which would have complimented her height if a past disease hadn't left her body savagely bony. A stereotypical dancer, she thought morbidly.
And yet it had been the love of the dance that had kept her going. New York was filled with dead ends and dreams, but fortunate for Verity, that state had been generous enough to offer her the latter. Since twelve years old, she had fantasized about being a ballerina, those goals finalized into reveries of dancing Dulcinea, Giselle and Juliet. For five years, she had put tears and marrow into perfecting her form, her grace, her stage presence. Sometimes, she would forget her love of the dance as she was involved in other activities, but once she stepped onto the stage, she knew where her heart belong. Favorably enough, so did her dance instructors. Those who would push and pry and fight for Verity's spot in the dance corps of New York, and would finally prevail. She would prevail. Night after night, toes raw and bleeding, muscles aching and sore, she would still raise her head high. She had found security in dance. Security that she had missed for most of her life.
Verity put a hand to her cheek and caught a tear that fell from her eye. Security wasn't everything, she knew. But at this stage in her life, alone or not, it was the most important thing.
She finally brought herself out of her daydream when she heard the phone ring. Almost tripping over her feet, she ran to answer it. Hardly anyone called her these days.
"Hello," the smile that came to her voice, surfacing due to happiness that someone had called, was evident.
"Cassidy."
Verity's body stiffened. Her fingers went numb that it was almost a wonder she caught the phone back when she fumbled it. Her cat raised her head in question.
"Cassidy.." the female voice repeated. Verity chewed on her bottom lip, trying to prevent herself from sobbing. It was nerve the woman had to find her, but it was audacity she had to call Verity by that name.
"I told you to never call me that again." the younger woman's voice was shaky, part from anger, part from anxiety. Why had she called her?
"I.I know I have no right."
"You don't. You don't have any right at all," hissed Verity, speaking before thinking. "Why did you bother? Why did you call? What reason could possibly make you want to give a damn about me, Agent Scully?"
There was a pause. From where she sat at her desk in Washington, D.C., Agent Scully bit her bottom lip and tried not to show weakness herself.
"Alex Krycek is dead."