The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in. She went to market every day to fetch the daily bread and more herbs for more medicines and potions, plus treats for the apprentices made of honey and almond paste. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. The storm appeared to have blown over, for they were conversing in a very amicable manner with Mr. Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly. The Widgetts talked with a remarkable absence of external coverings; the Palsworthys found all the meanings of life on its surfaces.
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