Symphony of Lilacs

36. Sliver of Faith

Mathilda Viola
Penrose

Mama’s beige cloak swishes beneath me, as I make my way through these old clogged streets.
The people walking here change almost everyday, but almost all of them have a similar story in their lives. A story to make best of a meager living.

Though what many people ignore to notice is the raven perched on top of these dim roofs. A raven with a single silver feather.
Its caw seem is the only thing  audible for me.
The raven wrings its wings, almost daring me to follow it.

Instead, I walk to the opposite direction.
The route in this direction may be longer for the dress shop I work at, but I am not in mood to have a taunting bird lead me anywhere else.

The cloak of smog lessens to a mere hanging while entering the central parts of the city. Though it retains its mist throughout, especially next to the police station nearby.

But what catches my attention is not the gargoyle staring down from the roofs.

It’s the Head Constable walking side by side with someone having a golden haired halo.

Is that him…

My brows furrow, as I move into a narrower lane to get a better view.
The golden haired man looks sideways when I turn.

But then Matthew stills when the Head Constable says something to him. He stares at the gargoyle above, while the constable remains lost.

I don't know how or why, but the constable's words echo in my ears, even from my distance,
“Goodbye, nephew.”

Before seeing anything else, I turn to the east with all sorts of questions furling and unfurling in front of me. One though is far more louder than the rest:

Why does this raven always lead me to you, Matthew?

Someone coughs, diverting my attention towards him.

I hold back a sigh upon finding out it is Thomas Page, a man with whom I danced with during Jacob Trevor's engagement.

“Hm, I thought women acted differently when praised about their beauty.” Thomas Page takes a step ahead, while I take to the side.

My lips iron into a thin line.
“You seem to have more experience of being a woman than me, Mr Page.”

He's been tagging along the entire evening. How do I get rid of him...

Thomas Page shakes his head, suddenly realising the slip in charm.
“Oh no, that is not what I meant.” He smiles.

I look behind me at Susan Weathers, nodding at someone talking about work.
An idea presents itself at overhearing the conversation.

Taking out a folded piece of parchment from skirts’ pocket, I smile at Thomas Page.
His shoulders relax when I hand him the paper.
“I apologise for the trouble, but could you please deliver this to Mrs Brownlow's shop?”