‘Don’t humour her.’ Daisy increased the speed of her waddle. ‘Cracked, that one is. Everything’s doom and gloom. Drives the punters away.’ ‘You’re quarry.’ The old woman called after us, then coughed as if a lung had burst. ‘Quarry.’ I couldn’t tell which of us she’d aimed the words at. ‘Save it for the peasants,’ I called back, but it left a chill. Always does. I expect that’s why prophecy sells.
