Anne ain't expecting any of what Greta has to tell to be the slightest bit familiar. But it is, in an odd sense: at least the idea of there being an unwritten set of rules one follows. The wolf might be the wrong sort of man and the witch the wrong sort of cunt — but it's the same idea, really.
She tilts her head, watching Greta closely from beneath the brim of her hat, her curiosity piqued again by the subtle shift in Greta's voice and manner, as of some faint resentment, a story untold. She wants to ask and she isn't sure how, isn't sure if she's welcome, if this is the right moment.
It's her own distraction that saves her making any immediate decisions; when she tosses something toward the chickens, she misses by a small margin, near enough that the excitable creature makes a clumsy leap for it, bending the wire fencing just enough that it vaults itself to freedom, flapping and scurrying its ridiculous way across the yard.
"Shit!" Anne snaps, haphazardly pushing the wire back in place before lurching to her feet.
no subject
She tilts her head, watching Greta closely from beneath the brim of her hat, her curiosity piqued again by the subtle shift in Greta's voice and manner, as of some faint resentment, a story untold. She wants to ask and she isn't sure how, isn't sure if she's welcome, if this is the right moment.
It's her own distraction that saves her making any immediate decisions; when she tosses something toward the chickens, she misses by a small margin, near enough that the excitable creature makes a clumsy leap for it, bending the wire fencing just enough that it vaults itself to freedom, flapping and scurrying its ridiculous way across the yard.
"Shit!" Anne snaps, haphazardly pushing the wire back in place before lurching to her feet.