| Preludes |
[11 Mar 2010|02:37am] |
I. Aldonza had tried so hard to keep Dolores away.. From the blood. From the bodies. But she had tried in vain. She stood, thirteen years old and wide-eyed, with her parents' blood seeping into her gloves until the much older, stronger girl dragged her away.
II. She'd learned very quickly not to tell that interfering, patronizing, well-connected fool that he was trying to squeeze out of the tenants what a competent administrator would have more than managed through sheer good maintenance. It only got the servants in trouble for 'manipulating little Senorita Lola with their impertinence." So Dolores learned to work on her lace, and smile.
III. He'd been away for months, currying political favor. She'd grown. She'd prepared. After these past few years, the ranch was in near-ruin and could take no more. She had the dark cloak and the boots and the whip and the knife. She could disguise her voice enough, through the dark gray cloth over her face, to make him think she was a young errand-boy for the Very Dangerous people camping on the estate, at least.
When he asked, petrified, she said "You can call us the Swallows. Because we will always come back. There's no getting rid of us."
And there wasn't.
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