Night Flower
It fit her the way things fit people they were not made for, swamping the shoulders, the sleeves rolled multiple times at the wrists, and she had pulled it down as far as it would go as though maximizing the coverage of it.
Her hair had come free from whatever she had fastened it in and spread across the pillow. Not the flat mousy brown Reineck's report had described, not in this light. Something richer, the low ambient light of a room in the small hours doing what low light did to colors that had been suppressed during the day, finding the undertones, the warmth that the harsh practical light of interrogation had apparently not revealed. Something reddish. Hinting at it. The kind of color t
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