Ironically, Bentley wasn't far away at all.
She was standing on the top of the Notre-Dame Cathedral, about six city blocks from the Cupboard. Her eyes were unfocused, her gaze hovering blankly on the Paris skyline without truly seeing any of it. The natural wind current swooping above the main city passed straight through her as though she were a statue, causing her red clothing to whip boundlessly about her body. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She couldn't even conjure up a fake smile.
Throughout the duration of her entire life, Bentley had struggled with the concept of angels.