The girl wanders closer, corpse-like and alone. She's thin, too thin, skin stretched over a fragile skeleton, skin that itself resembles bone, pallid and unmarred. Her long black hair is tangled and soaked: water trickles down her back, the dark indigo corset dress with its short layered skirt is completely wrong for the weather.
The boy has slid down the wall and now sits on the cold tarmac, hugging his knees. She terrifies him, though he's trying to hide it.
"Where do you live, little Prince?"
He looks up at her question, then back down. He shakes his head; no, he doesn't want to answer, thank you very much. He wonders how long it'll be before people notice he's not returned. They must notice soon. They have to.
He wonders how long it'll be until the girl goes away.
"You pitiful little thing. Helpless child, little Prince. Won't you come with me?"
"I... I'm, uh... How do I know you're not going to kidnap me? I mean, I don't even know your name or anything. How can I trust you?" He realised as the words left his mouth that it was a pathetic argument. The fact he didn't know her name was inconsequential.
"You don't, and you can't," she replied, curtly, picking at a long nail. "As for my name, call me the Princess. Although the lack of a name never usually seems to stop you from going off with a stranger."
The boy opens his mouth to order this girl who scares and insults him to be taken away, a reflex action which is useless without anyone to carry out the order. Instead, he asks her another question.
"The Dark Princess, the Shattered Princess. I don't really care." She looks down at him, her night black eyes fixed on his.
"Shall I take you home? Or shall I leave you here to be found by whoever next comes this way?"
The boy looks up to see a white hand extended towards him. He reaches out to take it, but stops at a shout from the street outside.
Someone is shouting his name.