In which Our Hero Confounds a Ghost; Makes Love to a Bereaved Priestess

There are many tall tales written in the popular magazines of Tarant and Caladon about life on the edge of Arcanum. Daring do on Thanos, trips to the Vendigroth Wastes, eking out a bold and brave and free living on the Morbihan plains, with nothing but your gun to keep you safe from the invariably savage tribes of orcs that would then be slaughtered by the dozens. Those tales, for some reason, rarely mention the typical fare for one living out at the edge: A hideous slurry of beans and pork fat called chuckslag.

Richard Fahrkus was stirring a pot of chuck in front of his entirely unromantic and unimpressive shack, and he looked like he was not entirely looking forward to the meal. Being alone in the wilderness for some time had taken its toll on what had already been a face nearer to troll than dandy: His cheeks were bowed with slablike fat, made the more jagged and ragged by a poorly kempt beard. His clothing still had a few stains of dark blood on the sleeves and had the look of being patched many times. He wore no shoes, and he did not look to have come into wealth recently.

Of course, if what Aribela had told us was true, Fahrkus wouldn’t have had many place to sell his ill gotten gold, not in the short time since the robbery. Still, I kept myself low in the bushes, while Virginia made enough racket for the four of us. Impressive, as we numbered two in total. She muttered very unladylike curses under her breath as she struggled to draw her robes free of some brambles, then settled herself down. “Sorry, sir,” she whispered.

I grinned at her. “This is why,” I whispered back. “We’re so far back.”

Fahrkus did glance up and away from his pot. He frowned, letting the wooden spoon he used go slack as the fire underneath the pot cracked and popped – the only cheery thing in this whole mountainous country. Virginia and I had been trudging through the wilderness for nearly a day, following the impression granted me by Charles Bregho. Several times, I had been sorely tempted to give over this quest as a bad idea and simply follow Virginia’s directions to Shrouded Hills. The sound of a bath, of a fresh bed, and of food better than a hare shot dead with my revolver struck me as remarkably appetizing.

But ... every time I considered that, I thought of the sorrowful eyes of Aribela and knew that I had to see this done.

Fahrkus strode, quickly for such a brute of a man, into his hut. He closed the door behind him.

“Where do you think the bug – er, uh, the blackguard is going?” Virginia whispered to me.

“If I don’t miss my guess, he’s getting a scattergun or a rifle,” I muttered back.

The door to the hut burst open and Fahrkus emerged, carrying neither. Instead, he held in his hand an old flintlock pistol and a bag that clearly had been stuffed full of shot. I nearly felt sorry for him, save that he was a murdering bandit and-

He pulled the trigger. Smoke exploded about him and a bullet struck the tree an uncomfortably close distance above my head. Wood splinters showered my back and I jerked my head forward and down, pressing low as Virginia cried out. In the confusion, Fahrkus had ducked into some bushes of his own and was audibly reloading, swearing under his breath. He picked his voice up for a shout: “You tryin’ to ride down on me, ya bastards?”

“Richard Fahrkus!” I bellowed, copying to the best of my ability the cadence of every guardsman that had ever demanded to see my passbook. “This is Constable O’Poole of the Shrouded Hills guard. You are to emerge with your hands above your head, or I will and my five marshals will shoot you dead.”

There was a shot pause. Then, sounding uncertain, Fahrkus bellowed back.

“I ain’t never heard of no O’Poole. The constable in Shrouded Hills is that lilly livered faggot John Owens, and he never would set foot outta that town without the Bowdie Gang shooting his raggedy ass dead.”

I rolled my eyes, then shifted slightly in my stance. I came to my feet and pressed my back to the tree, calling out again, trying to keep him talking so I might keep appraised of where he was. As I did so, I gestured with one hand, indicating to Virginia that she should keep still. Utterly misreading my intention, Virginia instead came slowly to her feet.

“Why’d you think the mayor hired me!” I shouted.

“Owens is the fucking mayor, ya yellow bellied liar!” Another explosion of smoke filled the brush, which started to smolder. This time, the pistol ball clipped and whined its way through the brush that Virginia was trying to skulk through. She yelped and sprinted out of cover, staff in her hand. Fahrkus sprang out, bellowing as he hefted his pistol like a club. He sprinted towards Virginia. But Virginia reacted with remarkable adroitness. She struck his wrist and his nerveless fingers dropped the pistol. Then her quarterstaff thumped into his belly, causing the red faced, blustering bandit to fold like a concertina.

He staggered away and Virginia laughed. “Not so tough now, are you-”

Fahrkus stood back up, and in his hand gleamed the cold blade of a knife. He lunged at Virginia.

And I shot him.

The shot took him in the belly and Fahrkus sprawled on his back. Blood rapidly started to stain his already hideously dirty shirt and he panted heavily, his eyes unfocused. I ambled forward while Virginia quickly – and prudently – knocked the knife from his hand.

“I am shot,” Fahrkus mumbled.

“That you are, Fahrkus,” I said, holding my revolver near my hip – not quite aiming it at him. “My partner here, Virginia, is a necromancer.”

Fahrkus gasped in pain. “Gods no!”

“A good necromancer!” Virginia yelped. “Healing! With magic! I can fix that, ah, belly wound of yours right up.”

Fahrkus closed his eyes, his face twisting in pain.

“All you need to do, my good chum,” I said, kneeling down to look into his eyes – or, well, the squinted, clenched eyelids. “Is tell me: Where did you bury the stolen goods?”

Fahrkus thought deeply. Then, slowly, looking at me – with my clear orcish features and emerald green skin, my tattered smoking jacket – and then at my companion. A robed woman, bearing a staff, with magick powers at her fingertips. Slowly, his brow knit. Through pain tightened lips, he wheezed out: “Neither you is a constable.”

“I can see why he turned to banditry, sir,” Virginia muttered.

The three of us made a slow, blundering route through the woods. Fahrkus spent the entire time with his hands bound behind his back, using a bit of rope that Virginia had stashed away in her pack. He would have made better time if he hadn’t used every spare breath of his for complaining. Despite Virginia having removed the bullet with a flare of magic and knitted the wound shut with a moment’s concentration, Fahrkus couldn’t take three steps without complaining about how his belly pained him, how he was sure he was still bleeding, of how his chuck was sure to be burning, of mumbling about how we didn’t have any rights to manhandle him so.

“You’re a woman!” he finally spluttered after Virginia had prodded him forward past some brambles. “And you, you’re a fucking halfie greenskin bastard!”

Virginia’s next prod somehow struck both more forcefully than she intended and struck the bandit in the groin. As Fahrkus sprawled and groaned upon the ground, clutching his knees together and straining his teeth and jaw, Virginia looked at me with an apologetic expression.

“Sorry, sir,” she said.

“Oh, these mistakes happen. Come on, Mr. Fahrkus. On your feet.” I grabbed him by his natty shirt and dragged him to his feet once more. Fortunately, we were only three more rounds of whining complaint away from the spot where Fahrkus had buried his ill gotten goods. I scraped away the dirt with one hand while Virginia kept a watch on the bound Fahrkus. As I did so, Fahrkus broke with tradition and whined about something other than his belly, his feet, and his balls.

“What am I gonna do when the Bowden gang comes round?” he asked. “They is said that they’d buy it offa me.”

I picked up the dirt crusted burlap sack and tugged it open. The holy symbol of Aribela’s order fell into my palm and I grunted with surprise. It was not only a great deal heavier than I expected, it was also flanged and spiked in a way that nearly gashed my hand open. I held it in two hands, pursing my lips and regarded it. It was a bit dinged, a bit smudged, but despite its time buried in the ground and in the hands of these two charming characters, the symbol remained made of solid gold, with glittering gemstones on the face, circling around the face of some divinity I didn’t recognize.

“You can tell them the truth,” Virginia said. Then, sounding like she was at the dentist to have a rotten tooth knocked out, she added. “Maybe turn your life around?” It was clear she would far rather beat him senseless with her staff – so I had to respect her attempt at following the teachings of Nasrudin. Or myself, depending on whether you believed Virginia’s story.

Fahrkus blinked at her, then whined. “What am I gonna do?” he shook his head. “The Bowden gang, they are right killers.”

“And how exactly did you get this again?” Virginia asked, her voice a low snarl.

“Virginia,” I said, standing.

“Sir?” she asked.

“Lets go,” I said, then turned to face Fahrkus. He looked faintly hopeful. I thought about telling him about the curse – the curse that would keep his spirit chained to this world, even after he had shuffled off the mortal coil. The curse that would ensure he would suffer the pains and the aches and the coldness of rot and decay for centuries. Possibly millennia. Instead, I turned him with one hand, placed my foot upon his posterior, and shoved him away. “Your knife’s back at the shack. You can cut your fool self free there.”

“Y-You’re just leaving me bound!?” he yelped.

I drew my revolver. “Five,” I said.

Fahrkus took until I counted to two to fully grasp what I was doing. He started to trot off. Even by his lonesome, he whined. The last thing I heard of him was him cursing me for being a half-breed, uppity tusk-faced pig nosed ugly bastard.

“Y-You’re none of those things, sir!” Virginia said. “You’re noble and brave and ... and did far better than that that that that...” She struggled to find a word that would let her both express her opinions and wouldn’t ruin her incredibly poor attempt to act like a priestess rather than whatever she had been before she had found religion. Finally, she settled on: “Bumrag!”

I smiled. “Thanks. Though, I do have tusks.”

“Small ones!” Virginia said as we started for the edge of the clearing. Then, realizing her misstep, she exclaimed: “Not that there’s anything wrong with tusks! Or being green!”

“Or the pig nose?”

“It’s barely noticeable, sir!”

“And what about my mustache?” My voice was deeply amused, even as we stepped between the tall, dark trees.

“Quite manly, sir.” She laughed. “Women surely swoon upon the sight.”

“Including you?”

Virginia nearly walked into an oak.

Aribela’s house was as delightful a sight as any I had ever seen. Coming to her front door, I rapped and was pleased to see her opening it. She smiled ever so slightly as I stepped in, followed by Virginia, who set her staff against the wall. Aribela immediately said: “Can I get you anything to eat or drink? You two look completely paggered.”

“Paggered?” Virginia muttered, looking perplexed, but I vastly preferred my answer to the question: I withdrew the holy symbol from my packet and smiled at the way her eyes glowed and her entire face lit up. She picked up the symbol, then held it to her chest. Her eyes closed and I looked away, giving her a moment to cry. The tears had been clear, and I waited until Aribela had dragged in a ragged breath.

“Come,” she whispered. “Come, let me make you something.”

A short time later, Virginia, Aribela and I were set around a rustic table, with rustic food. Some leafy greens, some potatoes fresh from the plot, and a sliver of smoked beef that Aribela had mixed with salt and homemade butter. The end result was a rather delicious, if somewhat simple, meal. In other words, it was the best food I had eaten in literal years. Aribela seemed content to let me and Virginia make the conversation, though Virginia proved as inept at small talk as she was at remembering the fine points of her own religion. She ended up simply telling a series of anecdotes about her teacher, the Elder Johanna, speaking with a worshipful air that led to a series of ... well, they were the verbal equivalent of train derailing, with the same faliure point every time: Why Virginia had joined the Panarri in the first place.

Neither I nor Aribela pressed the issue.

Once the meal had been tucked away and the fires in the mantle had begun to die away, Aribela stood and gestured. “Come, let me show you to the guest rooms,” she said. “I would not want either of you to travel in the mountains after dusk. There are too many wolves out, let alone kites tribes and bears.” She shook her head.

The first room we came to had been very recently cleared of many objects – the tracks of dust on the floor and the discolorations on the wall made that obvious. But the bed remained in place, made and ready for a person who surely was buried out back. Aribela gestured. “This, uh, this was my son’s room. You can take it, Virginia.”

“Thank you,” Virginia said, her voice solemn. She stepped into the room, looking about herself in the same way any would when stepping into an unfamiliar room in a stranger’s home. Aribela tugged the door shut, then clearly said.

“I’ll show you to the guest room, Mr. Cog,” she said.

“Please,” I said. “You can call me Rayburn.”

She smiled, ever so slightly. As she turned, she lifted her palm and created a tiny spark of magical light in the air. It danced near her shoulder and I walked with her, watching with interest as the spark shone upon her shoulders and her hair. The highlight was the pale triangle of her tipped ear, bespeaking of her half-elven heritage. I wondered, passingly, what it would be like to caress it ... and then blinked as she swung open a door into a room. I stepped past her and furrowed my brow. This didn’t look like a guest bedroom. For one, the bed was clearly too large for a single person. For another, the writing desk had several daguerreotypes of a younger Aribela standing next to a stoic faced, heavily bearded man. Her husband, I was sure. My brow furrowed – and then my own tipped ears perked as I heard the soft click of the latch on the door.

I turned to find Aribela looking at me. Her cheeks were flushed. “I owe you a great deal, Mr. Cog...” She paused. “Rayburn.”

I felt my heart start to thud faster and faster. Among the Kingdom of Caladon, laws against miscegenation were still on the books, but I had no idea if the same was true in the United Kingdom. But then all thought of law fled my mind entirely as Aribela reached up and untied a single knot at her throat. Her robes slithered off her shoulders and collected around her ankles as, beneath, I saw she wore the simple homespun of a farmwife. It was a shapeless white gown, thin enough though that I could see the faint discoloration of her areola and the hard points of her desperately eager nipples.

I felt my passions start to rise. My leggings felt very tight.

“The walls are ... q-quite thick, Ray... “she whispered.

“Good...” I rumbled. My green hand cupped her pale cheek and I leaned forward, kissing her. Aribela tensed, her back straightening. Her mouth opened slowly and her tongue slid along my lips, then pressed to my tusks. That seemed to only excite her more, as she molded herself against me. The thin fabric of her gown did not conceal the hardness that tipped each of her breasts, which sagged only slightly despite the trials of motherhood. If anything, bearing a child had only made them larger – and what she had lost in perkiness, she made up for in the delightful experienced edge of a married woman. Her hands caressed along my cheeks, then slid down to my shoulders, then went to the buttons of my smoking jacket.

Each one, she unfastened, her fingers fumbling only slightly. She drew back just enough to gasp in some air. Then, she dove back onto me, kissing me with a wanton eagerness. Her palms slipped underneath the opening of my shirt, her fingers tracing the lines of my abs, feeling the smooth green of my skin. There was some scholarly belief that, in the distant past, elves and orcs had shared ancestors. Part of that came from the strange nature of bodily hair among the orcid kind. Some orcs were as hirsute as the worst newspaper caricature, while others were nearly as hairless as elves.

I was among the latter.

Her fingers slipped along smooth green skin and from the quiet moan that escaped her mouth, she appreciated it. Most women I had met rather enjoyed the smoothness. It provided an interesting contrast to the normal range of human men. My hands had not been idle, though. I had reached back and first cupped and squeezed her rump, feeling her heart shaped bottom. Then I had undid the ties on the back of her gown. Now, we broke kissing for the far more delightful reason that her gown was ready to join her robes.

The pale white light of her magick shone across her body, revealing her every delicious curve. Being a merger of elven and human blood, she retained a human’s curves and the sharp differentiation in color in the nipple – elves tended to very subtle coloration changes. But she retained the elven hairlessness, which made it all the clearer that her sex was quite eager. Glistening wetness gleamed between her generous thighs, and my hand cupped her sex. My green skin contrasted deliciously with her paleness, and my fingers quickly found her slit, caressing her with slow, steady motions. The slick noise that filled the air was only covered by her shocked gasp. Her eyes closed and she leaned into me, shoving at my jacket. I removed my hand just long enough to let the jacket drop. Then I went back to caressing her, holding her up with two hands, as soon her knees were quite weak.

“Oh Ray...” she moaned in my ear.

“Let us retire to the bed, my lady...” I murmured.

She practically melted against me. I carried her, one hand on her rump, one on the small of her back, to the bed. Then, setting her down, I quickly undid my belt and my holster. Both clunked as they fell to the floor and I stepped out of my leggings with provoked a clear and audible gasp from Aribela. Her eyes were wide as she looked ... well ... not at my face. Not at my brown eyes, nor at the rippling expanse of sculpted green muscle that was my chest and shoulders and arms. Oh no. Her dainty half-elven eyes had darted down to my member and her mouth had formed a perfect O of shock.

I grinned, slowly, feeling a bit of swaggering pride enter me. My hand cupped the underside of my cock, lifting it as I grew harder and harder. Her shock had aroused me to a point that even her beauty hadn’t. I spread my legs slightly, to let my firm balls sway as well, two emerald orbs just waiting for her tongue and her lips to explore them. I chuckled. “Impressed?”

Mutely, Aribela nodded. Then, turning her head to the side, she settled herself into what she clearly presumed was the proper position. Her legs spread, her back settled, and her eyes closed as she opened herself to me. It was strange to see such a combination of rote instinct and clear, quivering arousal. She had done it in this style so many times – albeit with another man – and yet she was now blazing with pure excitement. I grinned, then stepped forward. My hands slid along her legs, cupping her knees, then caressing down to her hips. I took hold of her ... and then flipped her onto her belly. Aribela let out a squawk of pure shock, then gasped as I tugged her up onto her hands and her knees. Her hair dangled around her face, her ear-tips thrusting into the air as she tilted her head forward.

“W-What are-” she started.

I crawled upon the bed. My hand slid along her belly, to her full, swaying breast. I squeezed and fondled her as my cock slapped against her sex. She tensed and quieted with a soft moan. Her teeth sank into her lower lip. And then I completed the act, leaning down so that my chest pressed to her back. I supported myself on two knees and a single hand, my arm aching ever so slightly. But it was not like I was about to stop fondling this deliciously full breast. I squeezed her and closed my mouth around her ear-tip in the same moment, and I felt her sex spurt a thin line of arousal along my cock as she mewled like an animal in heat.

“Ah ... oh Ray!”

And at that moment ... I plunged into her. My green shaft spread her lips and my hips met her hips and there was nothing restrained or mewling in her voice now. Her moan practically rattled the walls as she turned her head to give my lips better access to her ear. Her sex felt deliciously tight around me, eager and slippery with her arousal. I admit some small shame that I was also rather pleased by the wanton way she writhed against me. Knowing that her husband was dead meant that I shouldn’t have felt guilt – it wasn’t like I was cuckolding him. And yet ... I was, in a way, wasn’t I? Cuckolding his memory? My hips started to drive, animalistically, pinning Aribela to the bed as I shifted my grip to better prop myself up and give leverage to my thrusts. This sent rocking waves of pleasure through her as I fucked her into the bed.

“Oh Ray! Oh yes! Yes! Yes!” She cried out, her voice musical – again, a perfect combination of elven and human traits. The beauty of an elven voice with the earthy, raw pleasure of a human woman getting the fucking she truly needed. I ducked my head forward, planting a kiss her, there, everywhere on her neck, her shoulder blades. I left a bite or two on her neck, leaving dimpled marks on her skin that only seemed to drive the priestess more and more wild. Her sex clenched on me like a fist and I found I couldn’t hold myself back.

I thrust deep within her, my full balls slapping against her belly, and she shuddered from head to toe. Her fingernails dug into the sheets, which balled and crumpled around her desperate hands. I managed to pick my hand up and turned her head, forcing her to look over her shoulder. IT was awkward, but there was no way I couldn’t fasten my lips to her lips. Her tongue sought mine with the desperation of a drowning sailor seeking driftwood as my balls frothed, surged, and boiled over.

Jet after jet of thick, orcish cum spurted into her elven cunny.

I snarled as I kissed her, and a part of my mind gloated: Bet she never came this hard on a human cock. It was an unworthy thought for the woman’s gentle and kind husband. But ... after a lifetime of dealing with humans and their treatment of me for my skin and my tusks, it felt deliciously good to feel just how much better I was than them in this moment. Aribela shuddered and her eyes rolled up into her head as she sprawled beneath me. She twitched and shuddered, her sex milking every droplet of my cum as if she was dying.

I remained hilted within her, listening to her last gasps. Only once my balls had emptied themselves so utterly that I felt nearly limp did I slide from her. Then, sprawled next to her. Then, taking her into my arms, I held her as she quivered. Slowly, her eyes opened. The mage light had gone out – extinguished the instant fatigue had overcome her. That was the weakness of magick, that it had to be sustained by the energy and focus of the mage ... not a good thing to pass out from bliss while sustaining even a simple cantrip.

Quietly, she whispered. “That was amazing, Ray...” her fingers caressed my chest. “I ... g-gods, it was better than him...” She sniffled, then buried her face against my chest, her shoulders shaking. Guilt wracked her voice as she whispered. “How could I?”

I held her, searching for words. My hands caressed her back, and finally, I said. “Your husband loved you, didn’t he?”

Aribela nodded, sighing as I continued to caress her. Her thighs spread, and she pressed her wet, dripping sex to my belly. Despite her conflicted emotions and thoughts, it was clear her body yearned for yet more green cock. I pushed that thought aside, instead saying: “Would he wish you to be a barren maid until you died of old age?”

Mutely, she shook her head.

I caressed her hair, slowly. “Then he would surely be happy that ... for this night, you found something that he had given you many times. No?”

She nodded, her eyes closed. She crawled atop me and I let her rest against me, her eyes closed. We did not speak as she breathed more and more steady. Until, at last, she fell asleep. I remained there, caressing her back, holding her. And then my brow furrowed. My ears perked.

I swore I had heard ... a very faint creak. Maybe a soft click of a latch.

But surely, I was imagining it.

Surely, Virginia, the Panarii priestess, would not be so crass as to spy upon two adults making love.

Surely.

I closed my eyes and soon found sleep as well.

Virginia and I bade a smiling Aribela goodbye. But before I stepped away, Aribela did take my hand. She squeezed it, then said: “As I can curse those who are evil, I too know the art of blessings.” She leaned forward, then whispered in my ear. “I cannot undo the evil reputation that many half-orcs have. But I can at least ameliorate it, in some small way. For you.” She kissed my cheek and I felt a strange glow fill me. It faded, and I felt ... well, none different.

Virginia was steadfastly looking at the horizon and, speaking far too loudly, she said: “Onwards! To Shrouded Hills!”

It took us two days of hiking through the forests to emerge in the river valley that proved to be home to Shrouded Hills. The river itself went clear from the mountain to the sea, wide enough and fast enough to deter wanting to go across it. The town itself was situated near the bridge, but as the Elder Johanna waited for us in the village, we headed straight there.

The village of Shrouded Hills was as rustic as everything else out here. The largest building in the place was a stone church that had been dedicated to the Panarii, though it looked long disused and someone had knocked out the back wall and replaced it with some hasty wooden construction that had a ramshackle chimney thrust from the ceiling. A rather large amount of smoke poured from the chimney, and it didn’t smell of cooking fires. Across from the church was a large inn that was creatively named The Shrouded Hills Inn. The inn was nestled against the main road, which wound past a simple well, and across the road from the inn appeared to be the town bank and several shops, including a blacksmith, who was out working on some farming implement. Farther to the north, the town spread out into scattered buildings, including a rustic mansion that was situated near what appeared to be a mine that led deep into the foothills.

“This is the place!” Virginia said. “Johanna is staying in the inn.”

I nodded – then chuckled. “But first, I think we should say hello...” I looked at the man standing beside the well. He was an older looking gentleman, with a handlebar mustache that had gone quite gray, watery blue eyes, silvery hair, and a large constable’s star pinned to his breast. A rusted old revolver hung from his hip, and he looked at me as if he expected me to come with a conquering hoard as if this was the Age of Legends.

“What brings you here?” he asked, voice flat. He didn’t tack on ‘you damn half-orc’, but the words hung in the air.

“Sir!” I said, deciding to bludgeon him. Verbally. “I have just been in the most terrible blimp crash!”

Instantly, the constable’s face reconfigured. His eyes widened and he looked shocked and deeply compassionate. “My gods ... that must have been the Zypher! We heard the sounds a few days ago, and I was just about to organize a search expedition!” He sounded far too sure of himself and quickly tapped his badge. “That is my job, being ... constable. And mayor!” He coughed. “But, ah, you know ... did anyone else survive?”

“No,” I said, sadly. “It seemed luck only favored myself.”

The constable – Owens, if Fahrkus had told true, and despite my distaste for the brigand, he had clearly pinned the constable’s lily livered nature – puffed out his cheeks, then sighed. “A damn shame. Well. Uh.” He paused. “Please, forgive my shortness earlier. I am Constable Owens. I am the law and the mayor around here.”

He did not hold out his hand and I did not hold my breath waiting for it.

“I’m Rayburn. Rayburn Cog,” I said, nodding to the Constable. “And might I beg answer to some questions before I go?” I smiled. “I’m not exactly from around these parts.”

Something tingled along the back of my neck. As Owens expounded upon all the ways that he could assist me – clearly the fact I was the sole survivor of a historic blimp crash was far more important than my green skin at the moment – I slowly narrowed my eyes and looked aside. In the small crowd of villages who were bustling by, many of whom were glancing our way curiously, I saw a gnomess. She was short and she was slender and she looked at me with clear interest. Before I could examine her further – beyond getting an impression of dark green eyes and full lips and hair so dark red it was nearly black – she ducked back into the crowd.