Where I had come from, how I had got here, I didn't know.
All I knew were my powers, the one's I knew from my childhood. The one's I'd spent my youth learning and perfecting. Witchcraft that could kill someone, or save their life.
But now I was here in a strange world, different people, unusual customs...
I didn't even know if my spells would work here - or if they burned witches at the stake - or tortured non-witches.
And on top of that I was on a farm of all places. When I thought I'd been born and raised on city streets.
All I had to remind me of this were my high heels from last night's party.
Not much good on a dusty gravel road, miles from any real civilization...
(Part 3 of 6)
I'd knocked at the door of this house, hoping for answers.
Because I'd found myself wearing a black one-piece knit mini dress, an off-white cotton sweater, and a brown wool shawl. But the only spells I could remember were minor ones, like how to change my black spike heels to sensible black flats. Although the dust of the half-mile or so of country road I'd just walked had left them looking more tan than black.
I didn't know why I was here, or my name, or even what party I had been to. I only supposed it was a party due to the dress and heels. Almost nobody but a masochist would want to wear those for very long – especially if they had to walk in them the whole day.
But what I would give for a brush to groom my hair into something more presentable. While I hadn't seen any mirror or reflection, I could feel by the itchiness and the way my Irish-red locks fell down my front that my hair had been put through quite a bit. Like a windstorm or riding in a convertible with the top down. And I was going to have some knots to work out when I did find a brush.
My feet eventually took me up to this farm-house. Small, neat, tidy. Something out of a fairy-tale book. And my knock at its solid front door was answered by a strange-looking fellow, who was wearing a sandy-brown tunic down to mid-thigh and mustard-colored pantaloons. Somehow, his dark-brown leather shoes came to points that curled up slightly. I couldn't decide which of us had worse fashion-sense.
At least his outfit was probably more useful out here on a farm than what I was wearing. And he smelled like craft beer.
“Can I help you?”
“Well, I hope so. And this is going to seem strange, but I don't know where I am. Actually, I don't know who I am, and I don't have any ID with me.” I was blubbering on, my nerves showing. He didn't need all this data.
That cute guy just looked at me through his blue-gray eyes with a blank look of his own.
“Look, if you're busy or something, I can simply go up the road to the next house and ask there....”
“No, that's fine, that's fine. Come on in. My name is Trimble. And I'd ask you yours, but you just said you can't remember it. OK, OK.”
He looked so nervous, like something had just gone very wrong.
Then I saw her through the open bedroom doorway, an unmoving body on the bed. Eyes closed, arms across her middle and for some reason, tied together with twine. You don't have to tie up sleeping people - and they don't tie themselves.
He saw me looking and turned right away to go and close that door.
(Part 3 of 6)
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