He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. Sanguine they were not. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. When she finished her last cadence, Carolyn and Thomas begged her to play encores. She would flee to the wild fastnesses, the places where there were no overarching systems of any use, where she could blend with the unstable populace and kill in relative peace.
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