The water isnât cold, itâs worse-- the lukewarm of a forgotten bath, turning the fabric of her dress dark and heavy, seeping through to her skin. She doesnât dare look down, not when she knows there are fish currently swimming around her legs and a distraught looking reflection waiting to stare back through the ripples. She feels like a particularly inelegant water sprite. She feels like Ophelia. She feels like sobbing, which, on the upside, would at least be partially hidden by the splashed droplets tickling her cheeks. Wading to the side of the pond, Anastasia snaps at the nearest gawking outlet for her frustration. âCan you just, like, not. If you laugh, Iâll start crying.â A forlorn hand reaches out to the stranger in a silent request for them to help her, every fibre of her body repulsed by the sensation of lily pad roots tangled around an ankle. âPlease,â she adds miserably.