The Morning dew washes out your remains of melting snow (But it still sticks)

Signora was sitting on the other side of the carriage, right by his shoulder. She held her head high on a throne of arrogance while placing a leg on top of another. She side-eyed him, her round grey eyes closer to a hawk's luminescent against the night's gentle hue, the moon showers her as it slightly bounces with the carriage's movement against rocks and earthy grounds, with what could be a plethora of light as if she was it's beloved.  Scaramouche thinks she would've been a sight to behold then and there, if she weren't fucking sneering at him with that god awfully punchable face of hers.