She gathered stones to place upon the makeshift grave. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. ‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings. “So am I the jewel or the bug inside?” He smiled. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid.
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