Madame Margot’s patron, Oligarch Pierce, loomed over the table, cross-armed. Beside him, face yearning, his wife sat erect and alert, hopeful. Margot knew her future, not only as a conduit to the spirit world but as a living, breathing member of the physical one, depended on finding (or faking believably) information about their dead son. Or was it daughter? Should’ve taken better notes…
Never one to work well under pressure, Margot began to plot a way out of the situation. It was essential that whatever happened, it be realistic. Merely falling faint wouldn’t do it.
Maybe a spiritual assault?
No comments:
Post a Comment