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Fortune was a heartless witch in perpetual anticipation of her monthly courses. And didn’t Ash know it.
“Who are you?” An old man shot up in bed and pressed his back to the headboard. “What are you?” “What do you think?” Ashbury raised his lantern to the gnarled, scarred side of his face and took pleasure in the vicar’s anguished whimper. “A demon come to drag you to Hell, you miserable wretch.” “To Hell? M-me?” “Yes, you. You crusty botch of nature. You poisonous bunch-backed toad.
The gospel is a story of grace and redemption.” Ash stepped toward the foot of the bed, until he loomed over the shrinking reverend, and lifted the lantern high. “Then why, you rank, miserable, piss-soaked serpent, did you fail to offer that grace to your own daughter?”
After a pause, he heard a little smile in her voice. “Is it, my fawn?” Saucy, impudent wench.
Well, it was what she deserved for putting her heart into it. Someday she might learn to stop throwing that fragile organ under men’s feet.
