Roses And Rot
“Helena called.
“Okay, I’ll go right down and take care of that,” I said.
There was a paint-spattered woman pacing back and forth on our front porch. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Imogen? You look like Marin said you would—tall, with long black hair. But I’ve been wrong about people before, so maybe you’re not.” Her words ran together like rain.
“I’m Imogen,” I said cautiously.
“Good. Okay, good. I’m Michelle. Marin said you were good at fairy tales, like, good enough to write y...our own. And I have one of these”—she dangled a silver hourglass from her hand, then stuffed it back into a pocket—“but, like, I barely know anything beyond Hansel and Gretel, and this isn’t really a candy house sort of thing, is it?”
“I’m pretty sure not.”
She was literally wringing her hands, squeezing the stress from one set of fingers to the next.MoreLess
“Okay, I’ll go right down and take care of that,” I said.
There was a paint-spattered woman pacing back and forth on our front porch. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Imogen? You look like Marin said you would—tall, with long black hair. But I’ve been wrong about people before, so maybe you’re not.” Her words ran together like rain.
“I’m Imogen,” I said cautiously.
“Good. Okay, good. I’m Michelle. Marin said you were good at fairy tales, like, good enough to write y...our own. And I have one of these”—she dangled a silver hourglass from her hand, then stuffed it back into a pocket—“but, like, I barely know anything beyond Hansel and Gretel, and this isn’t really a candy house sort of thing, is it?”
“I’m pretty sure not.”
She was literally wringing her hands, squeezing the stress from one set of fingers to the next.MoreLess
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