You wake up to ice-cold water trickling down your face. You really do need to do something about that gap. You'll end up catching pneumonia, and that you really do not need. Flicking water out of your messily cut hair - the same dusty brown as the rest of your family - you duck out of the shelter and look up at the sunrise-streaked sky. Wandering through the narrow streets, you can't help but think about your encounter the night before. Rhiannon Parry. You don't recognise the name, but you seem to remember your mother mentioning that the Parrys lived over on the west side of the hall. It's not a long walk, and you know all the shortcuts. Maybe you'll pay her a visit.
It's a cold morning, not cold enough to frost the ground, but your breath is still clouding in front of you like a dragon's smoke. You're reminded of another angel - Pyros, the angel of fire, with dark skin and fiery eyes, with two sets of twenty-foot-long wings that, when he flapped them, created fiery infernos that would put a phoenix to shame. He could heat this cold morning in seconds, you can't help but think, bitterly. You're freezing, and your ragged shirt isn't doing much in the way of warming you up.
You're beginning to regret this little quest of yours. The girl probably won't talk to you, anyway. Turning up on her doorstep without a sensible excuse? No way. She'll think you're desperate.
