“Avebury,” Guinevere sighed, pushing her tinted wire rim spectacles closer to her eyes. “Why would anyone want to come to this dreadful place?”
She examined the Neolithic stone towering above her, thinking about how greatly it resembled her present dress.
All those years spent in an orphanage might save her life today. All those years wishing to be anywhere but in the same room with a nun holding a ruler. All those years learning when it was prudent to be elsewhere or when she could shrink into the background, unobtrusive as the wall paper, to survive another day.
She’d left the orphanage at 18 to work as a kitchen helper and married exactly 3 months and 2 days later. She didn’t understand why her boss had said, “Marry that guy and you’re jumping from the frying pan into the fire.”
Sinister ghosts of the past; that’s why she hated Avebury! …
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