It's never been difficult to lure Ilde with fine things, inclined that way by temperament as well as nature; one of the few things she shares in common with her mother is a weakness for hair-combs, to go with the hair she also inherited, long and dark and blue-black when the illusions fade with her consciousness and leave her gleaming, eyes rolling back in her head as she crumples from the knees. If she hits the ground she doesn't know it, heartbeat (heartbeats) slowing until imperceptible, her body still, insensible and breathless with nothing to fog the glass that she's encased in.

(The gold design is intricate - before she slides it into her hair she turns it over in her hands, presses her fingers over the folds and grooves and can't for the life of her find where any of them lead. She's still thinking about that when she just isn't, any more.)

She was already cold; she dreams of roses.