"It takes more than a kiss to wake girls in glass coffins," River murmurs. "The prince never found his prize."
She straightens slowly, deliberately, and turns her back on her false reflection to face the new voice. Or no - not new, newly tangible. For certain definitions of the word.
The figure is dressed in a silver sleeveless sundress over her boyish figure, with a pale grey crocheted vest on top of that. She is barefoot, her silken skin only a shade or so darker than the vest, and that skin in turn is a grey a shade lighter than the masquerade mask that is her face. Her hair is a cloud of shadows.
"It's a reflection," River says, the corners of her mouth twisting in a grimace, slightly pained. "The light hits a surface and warps as it's transmitted back. The forcible shift in perspective reveals details that would be otherwise obscured."
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She straightens slowly, deliberately, and turns her back on her false reflection to face the new voice. Or no - not new, newly tangible. For certain definitions of the word.
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"Perhaps, then, you still have yet to wake."
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"She won't," she says at length. "That's the curse. Modern medicine has yet to find a cure for dreaming."
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