I am used to her whims. She is a fickle creature. One day it is fish, the next fowl.

She might sleep away her day in the sun, or be ludic in her nature.

She is as fair as the sun-kissed lily with a temperament as black as the Great Hall’s shadows should she choose.

She glistens and glosses; great care she takes in her appearance.

Green eyed in life and in envy – she sees me play with another and spits and spats.

She must have her way, her choosing, all attention drawn to her, or a stomp and a leaping turn.

Behold the white fawn of the dawn; I am the white cat of the eventide.

She is my Blue Lady of the Chapel.

Free flow, free form flash for JD’s Microfiction Challenge: Rescue.