Monday: The wind gasped and shuddered and moaned through the barren branches of the timber sentinels that soared along either side of the road. Gasped like a woman laboring for her last breath of air. Shuddered as the waves of the sea lashed around her. Moaned with despair as the weight of her sodden skirts pulled her inexorably into the suffocating depths.
Tuesday: But she was gone, and no repentance could bring her back. Then no more useless tears. Tonight he would surrender himself once more to the fever and let it burn away the memory of his sin, as he had for ten years.
Wednesday: He could feel the fire of luck in his blood tonight. He would win enough silver to bed in a fat, soft inn—if he did not continue to roll the dice until dawn.
Thursday: A light, where no light should be, hovering without hands in the air, cast its muted glow against the old standing cross. An icy tickle shivered down his spine. What witchery was this?
Friday: Would it chill him to the quick to gallop through the shade? What if the demon snatched his soul in the midst of the blast, then let him ride on hollowed out, bereft of his former humanity?
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