A slip of a thing, barely a woman at all. But strong. Nanny-like. Long hair slightly past the shoulders. Suspecting eyes that curl with a knowing laugh. A bustle gown and bonnet. In her hand, a leaf clutched tightly to the bodice.
Frost is curling all around him, all over the frozen dinners with their terrified little beady eyes staring out so placidly from the ice.
Everywhere but the statues. Idly, Not-Kenny steps into the last room, the smallest.
No frozen dinners, but in the center of the room, a last remaining statue.
Another young woman with a round pouty face and shouldered hair, he reasons, shaking his head as he walks around it, admiring the tight turn of buttock only partially hid by a scoop of ancient vestment. Plump lips like slivers of juicy melon engulf the mouth, and the sea seems to sound from doll eyes overmade to seem larger in the mirror.
She is carved not of colored stone, this one, but of ice. Clear ice, too, as if someone couldn’t decide what to call her.
Or was still deciding.
And there is a yellow rose in her hand, dropping petals on the floor.
One, two, three.
Two are already on the ground. A third is about to fall, teetering on the brink of oblivion.