She had taken to wearing black. Not black in the cliche wannabe chic way but a head-to-toe monochrome donning that possessed the spirit of mourning. Like a young nun, newly wed to Jesus and still in the honeymoon phase, still rosy-cheeked and farm-fresh, she moved with hints of pride. The air of unfounded supremacy that could only be born during youth. Her hair peaked out in piecey tendrils from a floppy black hood.