The edges of the flower she holds in her cupped palms are a dusty yellow, deepening gradually to a Galleon-gold. With slim, nimble fingers she pulls an all but transparent string from the centre, thin and delicate as a spider's gossamer web. Holding it to the sun, she can see the swollen drop of honey that clings to the end; without pause, she sucks it into her mouth, its sharp sweetness coating her throat. Honeysuckle, she murmurs, and tosses the battered, used flower into the air. It floats for a moment in defiance, before finally sinking to the grass, wilted.