The Steward nodded to the Chatelaine. “The Baron requests that his wife call upon him at her earliest convenience.”
The Chatelaine curtsied in reply. “The Baroness informs her husband she is unwell, and declines his request. He may, however, call upon her tomorrow, when she has recovered.”
Monica had been in the bathroom for close to an hour. Her hands were red raw from the cheap nightclub soap. The girl in the red dress had already been to the toilet twice, but Monica had soaped, washed, rinsed and dried her hands a hundred times between her visits.
Shakespeare has been outside my window for the past three nights. It’s rather annoying actually. He’s far too fond of composing sonnets about me, and it’s not at all flattering having my hair compared to a loo brush. At least he’s not holding up a boombox. I don’t think I can handle Peter Gabriel at this present moment.
It was raining when Myrdia reached the cottage. Big, thick clumps of water, like the heavens had decided to spit on her. The Goddess was spitting on her, Myrdia decided. She had decided to spit on her since the pilgrimage began. From falling in the gully to getting lost in the forest, it had been a disaster from beginning to end. She rapped the door three times, hard and fast. Anyone who lived within a hundred miles of the Temple would recognise that knock.