Sparrow has moved up in the world. Dawn finds her atop the bridge she used to sleep under.
The Vespera is sluggish in the cold, grey and surly as her heart. Wind whips at her skirt. A sentimental girl might throw herself in; Sparrow is too practical.
Footsteps stop behind her. If it's Weasel, she'll hit him.
But the hand that falls on her shoulder is heavy, adult. She turns, looks up at blunt features and snowy hair.
She throws herself against him. "You!"
"Good morning," Dr. Torrens replies politely, and then: "There now," stroking her hair as she cries.