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At the grave

Blanche stepped into the ancient garden of delights, basket swinging from one hand as she surveyed the flowers for harvest. They would serve to adorn her simple gown for the fair, and perhaps accentuate her charm for Jean's appreciation.

A crafty smile worked at her red lips as she picked the loveliest lily blossoms for her black hair. With or without her stepmother's approval, she would receive Jean's court. Suddenly he seemed her only means of happiness or survival.

She relinquished the flowers and knelt suddenly at the small, old grave, feeling not for the first time a familiarity with the place. "Yes," she whispered suddenly. "I was here long ago clutching my father's hand, beholding you, mother, being laid into the ground. Oh, God, his face was terrible!" She closed her eyes and shivered at the memory.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

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