A caravaneer, she’d worked under the sun and hauled cargo for years, and Cass wore this labor on her body with spans of lean muscle. Agnes had seen Cass shirtless when she’d been shot and knew she was wiry. Cass had slung her jacket off at sometime during the night’s proceedings and was holding it over her shoulder, and from the pendant Agnes’ gaze lingered on the oblong shape of Cass’ torso. What transfixed Agnes most in that moment was her heirloom necklace: a magnificent pendant engraved with a rose that always dangled right above Cass’ chest. She looked her companion up and down, inspecting the standing woman like a hallucination which, once sufficiently inspected, could be made to dissolve back into ether. Cass had already risen from her stool and Agnes was impressed by how straight she could stand after such a night. She was dizzy, sluggish, and held a deep-water gratitude somewhere for how dim the lights were kept in the Wrangler, and her stomach churned like entrails were wrestling inside of her, lurching her forward, slumping her further off the bar, and righting her up again. The blood in her veins was thick, seeming to pool in parts of her body and drain from others in random rhythms.
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