The plants looked grey today and even the old crow seemed preoccupied. She had dressed carefully and wrapped a scarf about her throat and head. When she looked to the right, her head started to ache and she regretted neglecting breakfast. The oat breakast had reminded her of some dark sty and she craved coffee, a last residue of intimacy. She had told the young stranger that she had little taste left for stories, and that her exhaustion was eroding away every simple detail of her first life. For this did feel new and yet so ancient that her bones told her they were ready to settle her deep down below the dry earth, touching the hands of hundred year old souls, who could still glimpse their former homes from here, should they hanker after their responsibilities still. The dull stone windows remained hollow eyed, removed.
How Russian I must be now, Katharine said to no one and her mouth shaped around a name that she knew she would never write out: Igor. Prince Igor. Let me write a line about Igor and a firm jawed woman in a long dress with the smell of mint about her and toes she could worship because her faith was restored.Let me know the sound of quick steps across a small courtyard and the laughter of dark eyes. She had awaited tenderness all her life and now it had arrived she was dying of weariness amongst the smell of sheep. And what gentle sheep they were all demure with their regulated chewing and contentment. They occasionally eyed her as she stood trying to breathe in the new way, her chest fermenting against her attempt to control its strange echoing sounds.
She wanted to spit.