There's something unmistakably familiar about the figure.
It isn't just the sun or the moving river, it's Texas. Her home. The one place she has that isn't connected to anything or anyone else in all the worlds in all the universes. The only people she knows come with her, through her door, so how could it be — ?
"Mireille?"
No. It must be a mistake.
She takes another few steps closer, wheedling the distance out of Beaut. It must just be someone who looks like her, blonde hair, slight, wearing — no, the dress in her hands, she's seen it before. And not in any nineteenth century store window.
no subject
It isn't just the sun or the moving river, it's Texas. Her home. The one place she has that isn't connected to anything or anyone else in all the worlds in all the universes. The only people she knows come with her, through her door, so how could it be — ?
"Mireille?"
No. It must be a mistake.
She takes another few steps closer, wheedling the distance out of Beaut. It must just be someone who looks like her, blonde hair, slight, wearing — no, the dress in her hands, she's seen it before. And not in any nineteenth century store window.
Is she dreaming?
Hallucinating?
Mireille is — lost. Dead? She can't be here.
Kate rushes to her regardless.