Agnes had often told her that she had a way with women. Or, perhaps more aptly, that women had a way of being drawn to her, like moths fluttering in the halo of a streetlamp. Marion had always attributed this to her natural boyishness, the fact that she liked women as much as women liked her, so it only made sense that she so often found herself entangled with them. But the bloodmaid simpering before her now was far too good for the likes of her.
