There's a soundtrack playing in her head. And, while not entirely sure what it is or where it's from or how she knows each and every word to each and every song, she loves it dearly. There are violins -- several of them -- and a piano; a harp.
A man is singing in a distinctly British accent, his voice gravelly and low, as though he's been drinking for the past hour and hasn't had time for a vocal warm-up. Don't worry, he croons...
Don't worry, pretty Violet;
Your time just isn't now.
They aren't going to kill you, yet,
So don't try too hard to forget
The man with one eyebrow.
Though tears may fall and blood may slip
From pale and slender fingertips;
Though life may seem so very hard,
And death will not loosen his grip --
You mustn't pout.
Please do not ask me "What about?"
Don't worry, pretty Violet;
Your time just hasn't come.
They have to look and find you, yet,
And once they do, they'll sure regret
Every thing that they've done.
And it's comforting, in a way, to have this foreign voice whispering things that no one else can hear.