She despises me, I suppose. She painted on the Root Beer Lip Smackers lip gloss that Shari had bought her last Christmas and rouged her cheeks as she had long ago as she once had for Sebastian. “I’m very shy, and I would like to opt out if you don’t mind. ” She leaned back amongst the cushions of her chair. 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. Tell me I haven’t heard. I jumped then—I was not even shaken.
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