<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Onneca de Goni<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 4th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Agatha's House<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Agatha, Open<br/><hr/><br/>There had been a book in her hand, a distraction to swallow up her mind. It was a book on heat resistance, heat dissipation and specific heat, and it had been in her hand after she'd finished oiling the shelves, which she'd done after dusting, which she'd done after attending Agatha's garden. She'd needed a distration, and there was Agatha, distraught, running on fumes, smeared with blood. All feeling left the hand holding the tome, and it slid straight through her fingers and thumped to the floor. It was the sound, before any movement, that told Aggy she was there in the den.<br/><br/><acronym title="How?/Why?">"¿Cómo?"</acronym>The reading light reflected back in a dozen streaks of red on Agatha's skin and clothes. If she were scratched to pieces, that didn't stop Onneca's arms from reaching out for her, pulling her close, and crowding her gasps for breath with her own body. The dress she wore had been hand-made, white with fields of berry-colored grasses and wildflowers rising from hem to knee. It had taken a season to raise the flax for the linen, weeks to soak, ripple, scutch, and hackle the fibers, days to spin it into thread, longer to weave it on the loom, hours to measure and cut the patterns, and a lifetime of practice to embroider the artistic character. In an instant it was rendered a rag for Elisabeth's blood. It was immediately ruined.<br/><br/>Onneca scooped Aggy up onto her toes. Her arms were tight, but her hands touched gingerly to find where she had been hurt- her olive skin turned crimson as her hand clasped the nape of Aggy's neck, her flanks, her back, her arms. It took her only slightly longer to survey Aggy's body for injury than it would her own. The breathy two syllables of her question had only just left her lungs, and the pages of the dropped book were still deciding whether they would chase the front cover or the back. It was someone else's blood.<acronym title="It'll be okay">"Todo va a estar bien,"</acronym>she said, like madre de Goni had always told her.<acronym title="You're with me now">"Estás conmigo ahora."</acronym>