Thousand: Seven Hundred One

who knows what you harbor from a fling with a celestial body. “Name, please.” “I don’t know if I even want to enter your stupid city.” The guardian of the gate, a fat woman in sand-colored robes, a single peacock feather bobbing from her headdress, raises her eyes and lowers her quill. Her eyes narrow as she looks the girl over. “First an angel led me to the camp below the city wall. Then this woman,” the girl jerks her head more rudely than she intends at the old woman who fixed her robes then took her hand and led