Her Little Flowers by Shannon Morgan EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Shannon Morgan
- Language: English
- Genre: Gothic Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Thick, black tea. Teeth-staining tea. Good, strong, Chinese tea, Oolong for
preference. The perfect sort for reading the leaves.
Francine Thwaite counted out the last thirty seconds, drank the tea
quickly, swung her cup left and right three times, flipped the cup over the
saucer to allow the last of the moisture to drain, and peered down at the
dregs. Once a white cup, it was now discolored by tannin from countless
readings. She couldn’t abide those cups with silly symbols she’d seen at the
gift shop down in Hawkshead. That was for tourists and idiots, which in her
mind were one and the same.
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She squinted, searching for symbols. Reading the leaves was a time of
quiet contemplation; not for the peace it afforded, but because it was
something she had done all her life.
A gust of wind blew in through the open door of the kitchen, setting the
Spode horse sliding slowly across the sloping shelf of the old sideboard.
Francine glared at it. “Bree! If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a
hundred times: leave the china alone! I don’t mind if you muck about with
the furniture, but not the ornaments.”
The horse stopped mid slide and the air around it took on a note of
disgruntlement, like a small child scuffing the floor with her shoe.
She bit her lip to hide her smile as the chair on the opposite side of the
kitchen table scraped slowly across the flagstones and the air took on a
fascinated concentration. “The leaves aren’t saying much,” Francine told
Bree. “There’s what looks like a C or a G with a pair of scissors near it, a
lopsided heart, and a cross . . . What do you make of that? I don’t know
anyone whose name begins with C or G.”
A teaspoon rose off the table and tapped against the teacup.
“Old Charlie doesn’t count,” said Francine. “He’s a hundred if he’s a day,
and I’ve known him all my life. I doubt the leaves are talking about him.”
The teaspoon tapped agreement.
“Well, whoever it is, I shall be having a quarrel with them, though
probably not a bad one as the scissors aren’t that close. Sharp words,
maybe?”
The cross made Francine think of graveyards. She hated graveyards to
the point of phobia and had never even set foot in the Thwaite graveyard
just beyond the garden in Lonehowe Wood. A cross wasn’t a good symbol
to see in the leaves.
“And there’s a letter coming. See the little rectangle here?” She tilted the
cup towards Bree. “Should arrive sometime this morning. Bother! I could
do without a trip down to Hawkshead.” She mock scowled at the chair
opposite her. “I wouldn’t have to go at all if you hadn’t frightened all the
postmen so none will venture up here now.”
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