The next morning it's Renoir, still rainy as hell (as Paris in every painting you've ever seen). Xander twists around backward to draw something on her foot: a heart. He's a good driver, Xander, swiftly dodging road-blocks in the swelling flood.
She wonders about Sherlock.
Of greater interest at the moment is Mercy. In the ten minutes before this - all this, what the crowd of 25 is thronged outside the door for - happens, Aden and Mercy are alone. The room, tea light decked, windows cracked, is quiet, peace and expectation, music loud enough. Mercy smiles, and begins to dance.
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