The taste of rain and salt sat on her tongue. Wet grass tickled the nape of her neck as she lay, limp, on the moor. If she moved her head to look at her hands, which were adorned with Catherine Devon's rings, she would've seen the blood.
But she didn't.
She stayed there, a bone-white mannequin, all twisted and wrong. A name fluttered from her lips, but was caught by a crow's caw. Then silence. Only the wind in the moors whispered.
Her eyes stayed trapped on the fading, leaking sky as a murder of crows surrounded her.