Ella bristled, if only for a moment before slinking to the table. The cup of offered tea was in her hands before Clemens could make sense of the whole scene. The gypsy smiled a crooked grin. Horace remained peacefully blank.

Clemens rolled his eyes and so doing saw flaws around the edges of reality. The distance was fuzzy, as if shrouded in an unnatural mist. Despite the chill of the hour trees and rocks wavered as if seen through incredible heat. He felt a little queasy.

“Tell me,” the old hag cooed, “Tell me the path you so softly tread.”

Ella held the cup but did not drink, “I tell you nothing, woman. We all seek the knife. Your part is to tell, not to ask.” Her tone was cold and firm, coming from some place of strength Clemens had yet to recognize in her. He found it unsettling, and even worse, he found it attractive.

With a disatisfied sneer, the gypsy turned her gaze upon Clemens who immediately felt his nausea rise to an alarming level.

All she said was, “Come on out, then, fijandz.”