At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. What CAN she put before that?” His voice began to rise. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. Rituals instead of medicines. She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily.
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