“What did you say?” she asked, startled.
Margarita whirled around, and found herself face-to-face with one of the Gypsy women. Stringy white hair framed a gaunt, weather-beaten face; peering out from that ravaged visage were large violet eyes. A tattered shawl rested upon bony shoulders and hung loosely to skeletal wrists, while a faded rain-stained chemise clung to her slight figure.
“You will be taken by many, but only loved by one. You will be consumed by fire, and washed by rain,” she rasped, her voice harsh and guttural. Margarita convulsed slightly, shuddering at the feel of rough fingertips trailing up her cheekbones –
and she blanched at the thought of the faceless bodies she had conjoined with under the cover of night; the fires of passion that had plundered away at her soul as she clutched to the last vestiges of hope while she thrust her outstretched palm into the swirling vortex of unrestrained desire, ebony mingled with red –
As raindrops pelted down upon her, Margarita spun around wildly. Salty tears streamed from her black-rimmed eyes as she searched frantically for the Gypsy woman, but all that remained was a crown woven of thorns and lilies lying on the ground.
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