Madame Margot, voice to the voiceless beyond the grave (the colourful scarves she wore proclaimed as much), snored loudly while she slumbered beneath an olive tree. The caravan she’d joined the other day had thrown her off - they called her “Medium Medium” - an obvious sign they didn’t appreciate her talent of feeling the delicate flows of the aether… *sigh*. To be honest, she had an ability to separate money from easily fooled fools.
In her dream, a sardonic smile spoke at her. “Your time has come. Awake and make ready for the Lady and young Prince who’ll be here soon.”
No comments:
Post a Comment