He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered. Lucy turned and faced the strawberry blonde behind her, gesturing rapidly with a folded origami triangle, evidently the newest form of note. You’re a good friend. One only. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. Once a thriving town before the Pestilence, most of the buildings and the piers had been destroyed or burned. She has had offers innumerable; for where wealth and beauty are combined, as in her instance, suitors are seldom wanting.
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