It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones of the Cathedral square. The sound swings against the rain. After it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle. Ripples and mutters. The room is damp, but warm.
Little flashes swarm about from the firelight.
Her hands are restless, but the white masses of her hair are quite still. It lies there formless and flowing, with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks. The room shakes, the servitor quakes.