He rang this morning. I knew he would. He said “why don’t we meet in Bradstone Copse? We could have a picnic,” he said. “No one who knows us goes there. I’ll stop at the garage and get us some sandwiches. And some wine, no: champagne. Champagne will be perfect, what do you think?”
I sighed from deep inside a romantic haze, and said that would be wonderful, but surely he wanted me to bring something. He did that big laugh he does when something really tickles him, when he tips his head right back, and his velvety-brown eyes half-close, the skin crinkling at the corners, his lush lips parted with mirth. I shiver, just thinking about his lips. Then he breathed with that husky breath which makes every woman fluttery, just to bring myself. And he laughed again, but this time with predatory glee. I hugged myself in delight, and told him I’d bring cake.
And what a cake. It’s very special you know, a fruit cake baked with help from Bradstone Copse itself; crammed not just with raisins, cherries and sultanas, but baneberries, thorn-apple and a spoonful of mistletoe berries just to be sure.
And later, when he’s eaten it and lain back with me on the picnic blanket, the glazed look in his eyes growing milkier by the second, I will read him the letter his wife sent me the week before I met him, the week she asked for my help.
I thought it was high time I put something else up here apart from the 'small stones' offerings. No apologies for the 'witchy' tone to this one, its all down to the book I'm reading at the moment by A. Lee Martinez, 'A Nameless Witch'. It is hilarious... 'laugh out aloud and get funny looks from the kids' hilarious, about a cannibalistic witch, a demonic duck and a perilous quest. Very funny, and highly recommended reading for January!