"The Tristitia?" The word is nonsense to her. She rolls it around, a marble between her mind's fingers, and comes up with nothing.

An attempt is made to picture the scene; hand in hand with a twist of rags, her head tipped back in despair. It dances a predator's dance, body gesticulating in the wind, luring her with its saccharine scent. Promises of loved ones. A vow to give, if only she'd offer up something in return.

Cold rips through her skin. She frowns at Chris.

"So you thought you'd pay me a visit. Well, let's hope that dream stays where it belongs."