She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. They left the castle that day for another, packing with them the leftovers of the troupe that followed them from place to place, never asking about the occasional disappearance of one of its unlucky members. “You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. 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. Because every mistake you make, for every new mishap, Joe, I take a finger. She mentally resolved to do her best to avoid personal encounters with him in that instant.
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