Perfidy had twisted her head around to find a white-haired woman. Despite the color of her hair, she wasn’t old, perhaps a few years older than herself, and yet had a mature nature to her, as if she’d seen and done things others could only dream of seeing and doing. Her face had an unusual sheen to it, and it took Perfidy a moment to realize her skin was speckled with small golden markings in the shapes of leaves. She wore a loose white robe that ended just above her ankles and the leather sandals fitted onto her feet. A brown leather belt surrounded her waist, its dozen or so loops dangling with all manner of objects: a horn of some sort, several vials of golden liquid, a sword that seemed to be made of bone. Strapped on an angle across her chest was a satchel of fine craftsmanship. One white-gloved hand gripped a gnarled walking stick as tall as she was, twisted with golden vines.

“Unnerstand whut?” Perfidy had said, gawking at the strange woman.

The woman smiled, but there was no kindness in it. It was the predatory grin of a wolf. “That they are ants to be crushed. Take heart that you are not.”

With that, the woman turned and walked away, sandals never making a sound as they seemed to float just above the mud and muck, vanishing into the darkness.

The memory vanished, too, and now Perfidy balled up a part of her dress and stuffed it into the tiny pool of water that had gathered on the roof, slowly draining inside their home. She soaked up as much of it as she could, and then slathered a generous portion of putty into the gap, filling the space and then smoothing it out with her fingers.

Then she backtracked down the ladder, releasing a heavy breath when she planted her feet back on solid ground. Had she breathed at all while she’d been up there? A flash of golden light flared in her memory, but she blinked it away. She must be misremembering. Just because she’d fallen from a roof and been lucky enough to be uninjured didn’t mean there was some mystical force behind it. Certainly not her mother, who was as ordinary a woman as there was. And she didn’t mean that in a bad way. Ordinary was good in her town. Ordinary made certain your name wasn’t whispered on lips hidden behind cupped hands.

She felt the stares that followed her back inside the house but refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing that she noticed. She closed the door behind her, pressing her back to the solid wood, breathing slowly and evenly. Staring at the ceiling. Watching the water bead at the top and begin its arduous journey. Watching it gather, grow heavy, and fall. Drip…drip…drip…drip………

Drip.