The Lady in White

The skies had swelled quickly in an ungodly wrath. Branches churned in the wind to a quiet and haunting tune. Speckles of water fell from above and dripped down her cheek, streaking the dirt, while the clouds around her cried. Anteola’s unassuming figure was wrapped in a dingy sheet of white, approaching the manor door with silent steps. Meek as a mouse in the rain. A mouse which had seemed to walk the way here.
Lifting a hand to knock, a scream billowed through the night causing her head to snap in the direction. Shrieking at this hour? Surely this was the right place. Her attention was now turned to the horizon...right place for what, again? She clutched the piece of parchment in her fingertips to hide them from the rain, an action which only intensified the delicate scratch of it against her rough fingertips. She turned to face a man at the open door now, a warm glow from the lobby peering out into the mist. All of her wits left her when the night roared once more.

“Greetings, I am Phillip,” the tall man spoke. “Here at your beck and call! Please, come in from the rain, Miss. Would not want you getting deathly cold, now,” He smiled, beckoning her with his hand toward the desk but the woman did not move. She stood in the cold dark clutching her cloak and the letter tightly to her frame, eyes of a deer staring down a crossbow sight.

“What is your name?” In a jolt, she shoved the parchment toward him which clearly startled the man by the way his shoulders moved. He hesitantly took it from her shaky grasp and adjusted his eyes to read it in the dim lighting:

“They call me Anteola and I will pay by the night.”

He perked up once more and motioned with the letter. “Right this way and we shall find you a booking. Some fine penmanship you have.”
This time she followed with one last longing glance over her shoulder into the rain. She missed it already.