The van served suddenly, like attempting to shrug off in annoyance anything clinging to it.
Clara tipped forwards, hitting her head on a crate. Black dots speckled her vision, and then she blacked out.
It was quite dark when she awoke. But when she did, she found herself alone, in a dark cell. All she wanted was Shiralee. She pulled out of her pocket the flower Shiralee had first presented her with. It was frayed slightly, but still full of presence and light. A small tear ####### #### ### cheek, wetting it slightly. Hoarsely, but sweetly, full of soprano and light and hope, she started to whisper the words of an old song she could never forget.
A little shine of hope can never hurt
It's like a star that keeps shining on and on
When there's darkness, there is light
That can make sure that your fears are dead and gone
It's a feeling of desire
It can set your frets to fire
A little shine of hope can never ...
She whispered the last word, pressing the flower close against her cheek and tracing it's elegant patterns.