Burgundy was the color of the table cloth her nails dug into. Crockery broke at her feet. Nihilistic verbs out one ear and haunting the other. Home life for a strong spined hermit. She stood and begun to braid her hair into tired knots. Spring time and ethnic cooking. Fabulous memories.

In a limestone shack, shackled was the word, she leant against parchment and dust to pry into the past. Pulling back crimson scars....Ones like the Family Cart wore open all days.

"I would love to pray to you. To feel faith like all my fingers. We are only. We are only"

The essential Gypsist..., she laughed quietly to herself, closing the book to move onto the next. When might she walk outside. When might bare feet like the streets?

The roads here did not feel warm or ice cold like home. The slate and the sleet smelt different too. Nothing prickled her senses into frenzies. Perhaps she was the boring one...

Hair done and knowledge packed into a yawning mind. She walked downstairs in heels and dress and sweater. Closed to the world she inhabited. This place that was determined to own her. It had a different air..

"Laverday, have you sowed the seeds yet?"

He looked at her. Righteous, incorrigable. Lovely as peppersauce across steak. When he got his way.

"Mabel, come mend the racks with your Icelandic grace. Then spin the dry and we will have business for another day", he instructed.

Mabel followed willingly. Sometimes she hated herself for leaving luck in his flowers. Sometimes she knew she knew better. Self loathing was a waste of all energy.

"Please, Laverday, tell the story of how the Elephant and the Skunk came to meet on the Savannah and the Forest clearing. It makes me laugh"

She was cross legged on the floor, fabric spread across her legs as she grabbed the wax and moulded them to thin poles in her flexible confidence. It was an art, and someday someone would love her for her candle making.