Veil of Azure Sequins

By June Marie Saxton

I rode without a saddle, feeling free and easy with silvery moonbeams spinning about my face. Darkness gathered behind me, erasing proof of my midnight trespasses, and like a meadow tap dance, only the subtle sound of clopping hooves testified I was there. I closed my eyes, bidding the wind to romance me with chilly kisses.

The Veil of Azure Sequins is a tragically beautiful story of deception and intriguea chilling look into the broken mind that is both fragile and resilient.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496947093

June Marie Saxton

June Marie Saxton is chiefly a wife, mother, and grandmother, but she truly enjoys her career as a nutritional consultant as well. June Marie owns Bear Necessities of Montpelier, a nutritional clinic and day spa, where she provides creative concepts for healthy living. She loves and serves easily, being forever fascinated by other people’s traits, culture, and talents. June Marie plans on writing until the fun wears off. “If it’s not fun I won’t budget the energy for it,” she says, “Although I don’t see my writing passion fading any time soon.” June Marie has authored eight books: Dancing with the Moon, Beckon, Into the Second Springtime, Pirate Moon, Emerald Fire, Ball Baby, Veil of Azure Sequins, and Mach 16. She was instrumental in getting her father’s manuscript published, Whirlwind on the Outlaw Trail, by Dale B. Weston. June Marie is currently writing Confessions of a Redneck Witchdoctor, which is slated for a 2016 release.

Book preview

Chapter One

T he pickup chortled to a sick sounding stop. Dad wiped a hand across weary eyes, leaning his head against the seat. I jess don’t know, he said.

I’m sorry.

You can’t love that kid—he’s a selfish, arrogant hotshot with a dead-end future.

I don’t love him, I defended. But he’s a little wild; dangerous maybe. He’s older—a bit crazy.

Well I’m going to kick his butt the next time he comes within ten miles of this place. And you’re grounded until you’re seventy for wanting that kind of action. His eyes fixed upon me, a pained gaze penetrating deep enough to rehabilitate a rebellious soul.

I know I’ve done wrong, Dad.

Are you sorry or jess sorry you got caught?

I turned my head toward the pasture. Honey faced us with her head over the gate but Restless raced along the north fence, challenging her boundaries as usual. Both I guess.

With a sigh of resignation Dad opened the door. I jess don’t know. He took long, slow strides into the house. The stoop of one shoulder must have been the heavy load of disappointment I managed to throw his way.

I sat in the truck for a minute more, despising the heavy silence that filled the cab. The quiet pressed against my ears, amplifying my thoughts until I couldn’t take the noise. I pried my door open and climbed out of the truck, stretching my legs. I should have gone to the house but I could see Mom standing near the kitchen window. She would need help with a dozen things as I’d run off and not helped all day. She had it hard, just being my mother, and the stress of our financial quagmire had her strung as tight as a wire.

I started up the walk before suddenly deciding I needed a ride to clear my head. Honey saw my move and her ears picked up. She was waiting at the barn doors when I swung them open. It took no time to saddle her, and then we were off, calling farewell to Restless. If she was better behaved she might get to leave the perimeter of the pasture, I said to the horse. But Restless is like me, always pushing the limits of her confine.

Honey carried me to the cottonwood trees that grew along the south end of the ranch. They acted like sentinels, swaying when the wind blew, as if to say, No, no. No farther than this. On still days they would quietly shiver, teasing me into sneaking past them. They could not bait me into more trouble today, however, and Honey’s gait broke into a gentle lope as we swung back toward home.

Today I had nearly run off with Bo Beckstead. He was nineteen and filled his Wranglers with perfection. He could calf-rope like nobody’s business, and I dare say he was the best looking thing at the fairgrounds. Many girls in short-shorts and midriffs had looked his way, but he was more interested in my jeans and boots. I liked getting what the other girls wanted! As summer progressed we hit a few rodeos together, had ridden and roped and threw down a few beers. When I rode in his truck I felt good, and I sandwiched myself so close to him that I had to do the shifting. A girl can get a reputation shifting for a guy and that’s exactly what I was after.

Of course Bo wanted my hands to be all over more than just his shifter but he didn’t get his way. Through all of the hot days of summer I kept my cool as far as he was concerned. I want you, he often whispered against my ear.

I am not that easy, Bo—and definitely not cheap. My body language said otherwise, so it’s no wonder Bo usually went home frustrated. I replayed the scenes of the past several weeks and my thoughts kept time to Honey’s even steps.

Long after the lights were out that night I could hear my mother crying. She deserved a better daughter, but she had me, and she’d need to love me in spite of myself for as long as I’d be around.

What my folks didn’t know was the fact that I snuck into their room in the wee hours of morning. I lay on the rug near the foot of their bed just to hear them sleep. Dad’s occasional snoring was balanced somehow by Mom’s throaty breaths. The sound was rhythmic and soothing, rocking me to sleep like so many times before. I woke up to the sound of my brother’s alarm and crept from the room before my adolescent behavior was discovered.

Hey Sissy, Bubba called, exiting the bathroom with a towel around his waist. We should play a little one-on-one sometime.

Yeah, I said, always eager for Bubba time. Unlike me he never disappointed anybody and if I was with him I was never in trouble.

I spent the morning cleaning my room, sorting clothes, doing laundry. My attention to home pleased Mom, and even though conversation was strained, she made an effort to be extra pleasant. What would you like for lunch, Sissy?

The thought of her new peas and potatoes in white sauce brought a smile to my lips, and my eager request brought one to Mom’s. That’s always been your favorite. Want me to make cornbread to go with that? I pounced all over that one, yes. To prove my appreciation I even picked and shelled the peas, a task which typically bored me.

After lunch I washed the dishes, telling Mom she deserved a minute to herself. She laughed, What would I do with that? There’s forty-eleven other things waiting for me. Go ahead and get out of here. It’s not possible for you to spend an entire day in the house.

I did an awkward thing then. I hugged her. I hugged her to me until we both had teary eyes. I love you, Mom. Someday you’ll understand me.

I found Dad in the tack room of our barn where he was oiling harnesses. They’d belonged to Granddad, and they were something the bank hadn’t stolen from us during the nightmare of the last two years. The big old draft horses they fit on were gone, however, and every other cow and horse on the place had gone to auction. Dad had stowed Restless and Honey at Uncle Gib’s until the banking jackals had retreated or else we might have lost them as well. The bank didn’t want our truck, it was too old.

Dad had aged with the stress of it all, yes. Silver gathered near his temples now, and his face was gaunt and hollow. Now Sissy, you think about these harnesses every once in a while.

What do you mean?

What were they used for?

To harness the team.

They could pull a house down if they were harnessed together. The recollection of horse pulls and competitions came to mind. Dad had loved to show them off. He might have stashed the Belgians with Uncle Gib, but the bankers knew he had them. I loved those big ol’ horses.

Best team in the west!

What if we put Restless in a harness and asked her to pull?

I thought of the fidgety horse, faunching away at the north gate, white mane tossing in the sun. Oh dear, I chuckled, shaking my head. You’d have better luck domesticating a full-grown wildcat.

Dad laid the rag aside, then kicked one lanky leg up on a bucket, studying me closely. Watch jess what it is you’re harnessing yourself to, okay? The question was meant to make me think. Again the eyes tried to fix whatever was going haywire inside of me.

I looked away, suddenly wishing I had another option—but did Dad suspect? You mean you don’t think Bo Beckstead is good enough for me?

I don’t think you’ve yet met the man that is your equal, Sissy, and you’re not as grown up as you think you are. Take it easy, take time to know yourself before you dive head first into a mismatched team.

I nodded, hurting inside the way Judas must have done at the Last Supper. But what I was about to do required sheer stupidity and a lot of nerve. Had I been wiser I could not have gone through with it at all.

I rode Honey one more time, loath to unsaddle her that evening. We had ridden for four hours while I memorized every post, tree, and irrigation ditch on the place. I never wanted to forget any of it. I stared at the horse barn, Dad’s shop, the garage, the peeling paint on the back of the house. When I slipped the bridle off Honey’s nose that night I put my arms around her neck and wept until I couldn’t take the pain another minute. Goodbye Honey, I whispered, turning her into the pasture. I closed the doors with a lump in my throat.

We always ate supper late in the summertime, and it was 9:00 before we took our places around the table. Bubba was in good spirits and teased me through the meal, a blessing in disguise. It drew attention from my heartache. When my folks weren’t looking I captured mental photographs of their faces; tired and worn, but so right. I stared at my Dad’s calloused hands, never wanting to forget the strength in them. They were good hands.

Bubba settled himself in front of the television for a while, and I snuggled next to him, sharing a quilt as we had always done even though it was far from chilly in the house. It was hot, actually, but the patchwork quilt just belonged on the couch, and it was an item of comfort. It smelled of Bubba’s aftershave and leather. It smelled faintly of Jergen’s lotion and popcorn. I determined I would take the quilt—it must come so that I could always wrap myself inside of it.

At midnight I crept into my parents’ room, kissing their cheeks while they slept. I love you so much this is killing me, I whispered. I left a note on their nightstand then slipped down the hall to Bubba’s room.

Are you asleep, Bubba? No response and so I stepped closer still, standing over his bed. I watched him for several minutes. He was my best friend! He was handsome to a fault, with dark, curly hair and the bluest eyes. I was afraid a kiss would wake him so I left a note on his desk.

I carefully rolled the quilt from the couch and tucked it under my arm. One hand carried my suitcase; my other hand carried a duffel bag and my pillow. It had to appear obvious that I’d run away of my own free will and choice.

Stars twinkled overhead as I stepped into the night. I walked briskly, counting my steps as I went, barring logical thought or heartsickness. I would meet him at the highway and then that would be that. The first chapter of my life would be closed, and only the albums in my bag and the memories of my heart would know that it had ever been written at all.

I didn’t know if you’d come, a voice said from the shadows.

Then you don’t know me very well. Once I commit to something I do it.

Such an idealist; we’ll see how long that lasts. I didn’t embrace him—because it wasn’t Bo Beckstead who threw my baggage into the trunk of a car. In fact I had only run off with Bo to season my folks and the cops for this time around. When officers questioned my parents, as they would do later in the day, they would ask, Has she run away before? And my parents would say, Yes, a couple of days ago, in fact.

The questioning would continue, Has she been in trouble recently?

Yes, would be the answer. I’d given my folks hell for the past four months, and it had all been systematically planned. It was pre-requisite behavior to avoid a kidnapping investigation. I would join the ranks of troubled, missing teens. I wished there might have been another way but as sure as the Yankees burned Georgia to the ground, my course was already set.

Chapter Two

F or sixteen weeks I’d prepared myself to do this. Four months of mental games, of steeling my nerves against the pain of this re-birth, so why did tears course down my cheeks as the car ate up miles of road, spitting them out behind us as I watched in the side mirror?

You’re sailing on The River of No Return, the driver said flatly, speaking of the foreboding Salmon River rushing in deep gorges through rough Idaho wilderness. If you ever try to come back we’ll kill them, we’ll kill them all.

I didn’t say anything, I just leaned my head against window while mile posts flew by with alarming speed. I figured Dad had reached Terreton by now; he’d go there first thinking I’d snuck off to be with Bo. But here I was, already spying Spokane behind me. We had driven through the night, reaching Missoula at 2:30 a.m., then through the long, long, winding canyon to the Idaho panhandle, across the narrow northern tip of the state, and into Washington.

During the hours of travel the driver had spoken only a few acidic sentences to me, terse and threatening words meant to injure and cut, just in case the former me wasn’t already dead. Surely there was enough life-blood in me that my nerves ached, and I pictured myself flinching inside the way squashed rabbits do along country roadsides. Their nerves spasm and jerk into moments beyond death.

As best as I could tell, we were now cutting a diagonal jag across the southeastern corner of Washington. As the crow flies, I was now closer to where we’d begun, but cars can’t fly over the jagged, Salmon River Mountains. Horses were about the only transportation mode that could go due west from where I had once lived. So it had been a ridiculous route through three states, but I suspected the driver made it all the more ridiculous to keep us from being found just in case the police had already circulated my picture.

I never asked for bathroom breaks, but whenever the driver pulled into a station for gas I’d take advantage of them. My stomach was cramping with stress and I felt ill to the very center of me. We stopped at a station in Kennewick, and I ran into the bathroom quickly. Diarrhea is never pleasant on a road trip, and this road trip was the worst of my nearly seventeen years. After the lower-bowel assault was over I knelt over the toilet, violently hurling. As I exited the stall for the second time, I met the driver standing in the doorway of the ladies’ room. Apparently I had taken longer than he thought I should have.

I washed my hands and splashed water on my face while he stared at me in the mirror. Will you give me enough time to brush my teeth?

Learn to better control your sick urges or deal with it, he said coldly.

So I scooped water into my mouth and rinsed it the best I could; gargling, spitting a stream into the sink without giving him the satisfaction of an answer.

In a few miles we crossed the Columbia River, and yet another state line, putting straight west now. Portland? At first I had suspected Seattle—but now I could read the writing on the wall. My question remained unanswered, and only freeway signs satisfied my basic curiosity.

Lost in a new world and strange terrain, I watched river barges freighting grain to elevators along the river. This was new to me, and for a couple of hours I forgot everything. Not until I wished I might have spoken to Dad about the marvels of freighting grain along the river route did the pain register and my guts tie again into knots.

We turned off the freeway at The Dalles. I was grateful because my churning stomach needed relief, but instead of a station we drove to a splintery home near the hill. I didn’t know whether or not I was to get out of the car. The man had already slammed his door and stood now, dragging on a cigarette. I saw a sheet stir at the window where proper curtains should have been. I did not want to go into the house.

The driver blew smoke from his nostrils hotly, motioning impatiently for me to join him. This I did with wary trepidation. I felt even more ill when he told me to get my bags from the car. We are staying here tonight. I need some shuteye. It was the kindest statement of the journey.

Subwoofers made the house pulse, and it seemed to shed chips of paint with every beat. Even from the sidewalk I could feel the vibrations of Mötley Crüe. A nervous looking lady let us in the house. She was smoking a joint and the house stunk with the sickly haze. Who be da slut?

That brought my head up sharply. She had never seen me before, yet she had the nerve to call me that? My country girl roots were set to knock her on her scrawny backside, but then I remembered why I was here; why I wasn’t home riding Honey on a summer day. Drinking a few beers and shifting for Bo Beckstead hadn’t quite prepared me for all of this, reputation or not.

Who do you want her to be? She needs I.D.’s.

So-shull Secure-i-tee, too?

Everything. Duke said to create the whole package for her, that way we are always ready.

Dee-ploma and everee-ting, huh?

Yes.

Does Duke care where she’s from?

As long as it’s not from Idaho.

That’s when I noticed the other guy. He was sitting at a cluttered table in the next room. He had a typewriter, a word processor, a computer, a laminating machine; everything a person would need to crank documents.

Come here bitch.

I have a name, I said, tiring of their boorish disrespect quickly.

What is it?

Suddenly I floundered. Who was I? I could no longer be Cicely Violet Nichols; she died, at midnight her life was over. Everything Cicely had been; the things she loved, the influences in her life, were now cast aside like they never happened. I had considered different names and aliases over the last few months, but an alias is different than an actual identity.

The woman made a degrading, semi-understandable comment while I stared stupidly at the man with the computer, my mind spinning to answer. The hit movie of the last year had been Footloose. Every girl across the country had clamored for Kevin Bacon as Ren. We envied the character Ariel, even though we were annoyed with her bad-ass attitude and over-confident, reckless manner. I’d patterned myself after her as closely as I dared in order to make my sudden disappearance a little bit believable.

I liked the name Ariel, too—it was fresh and young and fun to write. Just as I whispered, Ariel, the driver said, She looks like a Laurie to me.

Laurie? Ariel? The computer man grinned, rolling a stubby lip into a curl. Give me your driver’s license.

I handed him my driver’s license, social security card, all of it, while my driver walked over to the blasting stereo and pushed a button. The silence that rippled through the space nearly hurt in contrast. I’m taking the bed, he called.

I’m coming wif you, the woman cackled. I could use me some mahn right now.

My eyes nearly bugged out of my head as they disappeared behind a thin door. What kind of a subspecies were these people? My father would have called them mutants. Very quickly I turned the stereo on to relieve the banging sound coming from the bedroom. The man at the table chuckled. When Rashawnda comes out you can turn that off so Rudy can sleep.

Rashawnda came back out in only five minutes so apparently Rudy was tired. My eyes scanned the place. I don’t know why this home wasn’t under police surveillance day and night. One look at the exterior and you knew good things weren’t happening inside.

Don’ you go look-in’ down your nose at my place, Rashawnda said, stepping in front of me as I gazed toward the filthy living room. You don’ bust in here, act-in’ like all da queen and dat. Dis be my place, an’ I don’ owe you no-thin’. She snapped her bony fingers in front of my face.

I had a hard time understanding her. Were we, or were we not, all speaking English here? Why did I feel like I needed subtitles to be running across her forehead? Where are you from? Jamaica? Haiti? What did people sound like from those places?

You dumb slut, I from right here, at Da Dalles. Her tongue got stuck on the L’s, dragging the word to tiresome lengths. Obviously her former self had suffered death as well. The smallish community seemed rather too nice to produce such a Rashawnda as this one, and the accent told me she was from someplace a lot farther away than Oregon country, USA.

No matter who we become, Cicely Nichols whispered inside of me, "Never, ever, turn out like that."

Chapter Three

T here was a tattered looking trampoline out the back door. A few springs were torn off, dangling forlornly towards the ground, but I could scarcely believe my good fortune. Rashawnda, I asked after a disappointing meal of sardines and crackers, (there was no other food in the house) Would you mind if I slept on the trampoline tonight?

Oh now you wan’ wut Rashawnda has got? You like bounce-in’ while you sleep, is dat it, ho?

This person was entirely insane. I would have slept on top of the roof if it meant I could get out of her filthy, smelly, horrible house. It was depressing me worse than the thought of never again getting to go home. At this point I was so exhausted I could cry. I like sleeping out, I reasoned.

Da slut likes to sleep out, Meel-ton, she said to the man at the computer. She likes bounce-in’ while she does it.

She has a name, Milton retorted. It’s Larielle Lawton. Oh, so he’d welded Laurie and Ariel together, sticking me with a hybrid name. I wasn’t sure I could get used to it.

Lar-i-elle, Rashawnda drawled, making my new name sound like an incantation. I pictured black cats falling into unconsciousness all over the neighborhood. This loony-bird must have been a voodoo queen in her former life. As you wish, Lar-i-elle Law-ton. The irises of her black eyes rolled upward, exposing only whites. The motion frightened the living daylights out of me.

I had left my things sitting on the front steps of the house to keep them from getting all stenched up with the sickly odors of Rashawnda and her various, assorted bad habits and strange company. I retrieved them and made my way to the back yard; this way I would avoid hearing Rashawnda, just in case she needed more mahn during the night.

I spread the clean quilt out, and then lay down, rolling myself up in it as I went, inhaling the delicious smells of that far-away place I used to live. Home, Cicely whispered. You can say it, you know. It smells like home.

I buried my face into my pillow—an object which also smelled like home, and I cried until I could no longer remember where I was. Sleep blessedly took my worries and doubts for a few hours.

I felt muddled upon waking, but suddenly bolted upright. There was no sunlight yet, but I could see the form of Rudy Whoever He Was standing at the back door watching me sleep. A shudder of repulsion disallowed me from returning to decent slumber. The rest of the night was guarded at best.

I did my morning chores between a dumpster and the garage. No way was I using Rashawnda’s bathroom. This was 1985, and there was an AIDS crisis which I determined not to become a part of. Who knew what a person could catch from her toilet? I washed myself from an outside faucet, again using the cover of the dumpster to hide behind. There was a small container of soap in my travel bag and I congratulated myself on the foresight of packing it. I brushed my dark hair into a ponytail, not caring so much if my bangs were big enough today. At least I was clean.

Let’s get out of this shithole, Rudy’s voice called before I could sun myself on the trampoline. I was quick to gather my things and be on my way with him, as unsavory and as unkind as his character seemed.

I loaded my things in to the car while Rudy dashed to the house with a package. Payment, he said. I imagined drugs were in the package, but Milton and Rashawnda would have been better off with some milk and cheese.

We stopped at McDonald’s. This was the first real food I’d had since Cicely downed her last home-cooked meal with the family. I was surprised Rudy bought me an Egg McMuffin and some coffee.

Thank you, I whispered, taking them from his hands.

I was glad you didn’t try to run last night. I was too tired for games and I would have cut you.

I didn’t say anything more, not wanting to jinx the improvement in his mood over yesterday. In my mind I added, I hope you didn’t catch anything last night, but I left it unsaid. I could really care less whether or not he had the crabs.

You are quite a looker, Rudy said, giving me a hard stare. I kept my gaze down, panicking at his attentions. No wonder Duke wants you handled by a veteran. A lesser man would fumble this and you’re going to bring a good price.

Complimentary—if you’re talking about a heifer on her way to auction. Who is this Duke person?

Let’s just worry about who you are.

I’m Larielle Lawton, I said casually, trying to rehearse the identity.

You are not, Cicely whispered. No matter how many times you say it, you are still me.

I pulled two new drivers’ licenses out of my wallet. One said I was eighteen, the other twenty-one. Both were wrong, of course.

You look good in those cutoffs. Rudy’s eyes narrowed, ever boring in on different parts of me, making me focus entirely too much on stirring swirls of cream into my coffee.

The landscape changed between The Dalles and Portland, putting me in mind of the Idaho Panhandle; lots of trees and pointed peaks, small lakes and big rivers. The traffic grew worse as the mileage signs grew nearer. Portland made Missoula look like a town, and Missoula made Salmon, Idaho seem like the remotest corner of Dog Patch. As the crow flies I was still not so far away from home, but as the world goes I was on another planet.

Suddenly a bend or two in the road, and there was a massive city overlooking water—and a terrifying knot of curling roads and bridges that seemed to be designed by the worlds’ most daring rollercoaster engineers. You can never drive here, Cicely whispered. Promise me you won’t—I can’t afford dying a second time. The way she kept chattering at me I could see she wasn’t completely dead. Perhaps she was the Energizer Bunny flinching by the side of the road. If that was the case she’d flinch forever, never too far gone to kick.

I glanced at Rudy. The traffic didn’t seem very alarming to him and he was merging back and forth just fine. I tried to relax as my eyes swept along the jagged skyscrapers that constituted the downtown area. It was difficult to assess the size of the city, though, it was built on hills and so I could measure the size of one part, only to travel through a tunnel, or around a bend, to see another section sprawling up a hillside or hidden in the trees.

Beaverton, that’s what the sign said, and that’s where we went as the business district gave way to gentle hills of lushly groomed residential areas. Rudy checked his watch, scowling. We’re a bit late, he said, hitting the accelerator, zipping along too quickly for me to keep my bearings; left turn, right turn, round-about, left, left, left, then right. After ten minutes of this my bearings were completely sprung. I couldn’t get a good visual of anything, too many towering trees and high retaining walls.

We pulled up to a neatly manicured, white brick rambler. A sign read Spoil Me Pretty Salon near a rear entrance. Hurry, Rudy said, slamming his door abruptly.

I scuttled behind him on the curving walk, deeply inhaling a potpourri of fragrance from flowering shrubs and roses bushes. A slight departure from the grandeur known as Rashawnda’s house, I suggested.

A small bell sounded with the door as we stepped into a one-room salon. It was a good size, however, and decorated like a boudoir of sorts. Hot pink and silver metallic wallpaper was on one wall, complete with black shaded wall sconces. It was bold, yes, but tastefully done. A large zebra print rug angled in front of the door, covering shiny black and grey floor tiles.

A stylist appeared on cue. She wore four inch heels and a short skirt with black tights. Her bangs were the biggest, but her hair was cut into an asymmetrical line, short above one ear, sloping to a chin level bob on the other. I didn’t know one person in Salmon with hair like that. It was daring red, with one bright Cyndi Lauper yellow streak near her face, canary yellow. Her sheer grey blouse looked like something Boy George would die for; shoulder pads, tuxedo collar, but the back of it was split, revealing a well-aligned spine and a hot pink bra strap. Her waist was cinched with a wide white belt, space-aged. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, showing a collection of hot pink and silver bracelets crawling up one wrist. Her nails were painted glossy black. I dare say she matched her salon very well.

While I took stock of her, she was silently appraising me, biting on one lip. Hey, she said finally, obviously trying to decide the best thing to do with me.

From somewhere inside Cicely whimpered, Don’t let her cut my hair, but I ignored the voice. This was bound to be the most pleasant part of this whole experience and it was one I wasn’t even counting on. Nobody mentioned a makeover.

I will be back at four, Rudy cut in. Have her ready. The door closed.

What’s your name, pet?

Larielle.

I like it, she cooed, sugar dripping.

Thanks. Some guy named Meel-ton gave it to me. I rolled it off my tongue with reggae emphasis.

You’re a sweetheart; that was good. I liked the texture of her voice. It was alluring, somehow, and it might be a good trait to learn. I listened carefully as she spoke, internally mimicking the generosity of her tone. My name is Molly, you know? Like Molly Ringwald, only not as rich—and unfortunately not as young.

Probably nicer though.

Probably not. Have a seat, she motioned to the salon chair in front of a big mirror. She stood behind me, studying my reflection. She pulled the elastic out of my hair, running her fingers through the texture. Lovely dark brunette locks, she said richly. I don’t want to do anything too drastic to you.

Cicely shivered a sigh of relief—I could feel it.

"But I think we need to give you some amazing texture, and