It wasn't tears, it was the rain on her face. But she couldn't close her eyes against the rain -
* * *
* * *
That was the name she had wanted to remember. That was the name in her handbag
- But there were other names in her handbag, and they wouldn't know which name was her name - Where was her handbag? Without her handbag she had no name at all: they wouldn't know who she was.
* * *
'Mitchell. Are you all right?' A different voice, far away but well-remembered. 'Yes.'
The first voice, much closer but far above her. 'Over here. Colonel - Oh God! Frances!'
* * *
She had made a fascinating discovery: they were quite right when they said
But they were also quite wrong, because she had heard it long before, and everything she had done had been only to make sure she was in the right place at the right time to meet it.
She wanted desperately to tell them that, but she couldn't, and that made her angry: it seemed to her that she had failed in everything she had set out to do in her life -
* * *
'Frances - Frances - '
The colours swirled and swam. She floated into them.
'Let her be, lad. Let her be.'
* * *
She no longer recognised the names, or the faraway voices. And yet the sound of them took away her anger and her despair at her failure.
Perhaps not everything, perhaps not everything -
And that was enough for the Act of Contrition, which must be the last feeling of all -
* * *
No, not the last.
The last feeling, as the greens and greys darkened, was the gentle kiss of the rain - of the Prince - on her lips.
