As the woman watches you, her expression takes on crinkly merriment.
“Ah yes,” she says. “I know you.”
She straightens up, taking care to brush dust from her skirt. Her hair seems to have darkened, and ringlets jounce about her ears. As she slaps impatiently at the fabric of her clothes, you see that there is a stronger form to her back, her arms, her legs. Not so elderly as she seemed. “Well, this way.”
You follow her off the thoroughfare, turning down an alley. She moves deftly ahead, lifting her skirts as she strides. Another alley. Another. Each turn is a turn to the left, one after the next, one after the next. As you follow, you try to picture your progress as a line upon a map, and it seems that it must be like a circle that continues to narrow, a spiral closing in on itself, a hand clenching at a throat, and you move deeper and deeper into this strange town until you stand surrounded by tall buildings, and the sun is blotted, and all the shade that falls is dark. Like shade.
There is no sound.
The woman steps through a doorway over which hangs a sign. Captain’s Quarters.
You hesitate–your instinct is to turn and walk away.
But … you could follow her. Even though it might be dangerous.
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