(not sure yet. working on it, but falling asleep)
She can see the child's face in her mind's eye; young, two or three, perhaps four. Less than school-age at any rate. She's not good with children, cannot divine the mysteries locked in their soft cheeks and rounded faces.
Definitely no more than eight, for certain.
It has soft black hair that shimmers against the light and the fat curves and soft angles of cheeks and face and the low-lit glow of dark, dark eyes. The point of its chin is sharp before a high red collar. The silk dress leaves glowing reflections against the child's skin.
As she watches, the child grows larger and larger over her head. The sun becomes dim, grey, distant.
It laughs. She sees its teeth are not enamel, but massive pearls, shimmering peach and silverblue haze against each other's cloudy faces.
Then the sky behind it erupts into a thousand feathered pieces. The heavy pattern of wingbeats becomes louder, louder, becomes all-consuming
and then there is silence.
(tbc)