Wings emitted from her back like tree trunks, somber, grasping.
Two vicious arms played a frozen game of Red Light, Green Light in the aching darkness, that alone time between apartment building and shop when all the neighbors still don’t know you and it’s a dismal one after midnight.
Cold wrinkles like wet candles flaming up scantily dressed old-time arches, inked along her passageways by years of stolen time, whiled away in a roc’s egg.
But the heat of the light, the green song, had fallen over her once the sonic had been dropped.
-Had been- dropped.
It was dropped, and it still lit and blinked and flashed, for a while.
Enough to sear her with its little fire-shadow.
And how that fire-shadow climbed up her well-turned calf! The son of a sundial and a dreamy archaeologist.
So yes, the sonic is still there, setting back a bit into its place of honour, the tiny indent it made in the ice.
Well, she is not in well standing anymore; barely a witchy puddle, really.
Hot tears can do that, in a pinch.