Halfway down Partridge, I stopped. A man leaned, shadowed under an old oak tree in the yard of what appeared to be an abandoned, cobwebbed house at the back of the lot.
Heart racing, I considered crossing the street as I took in his costume in the filtered moonlight. Under the cape, he wore an archaic tunic with breeches and leggings of another era. What party did he go to, I wondered. His worn boots slouched appealingly. A light breeze ruffled his long dark hair streaked with silver. Dim half-moon rays etched his lightly bearded face.
We stared at each other, the only sound a breeze rustling in dry oak leaves above.
He pushed himself fluidly from the tree trunk and closed the distance between us. I thought I should run. Yet, something emanated from him—almost a familiarity.
He looked down at me, eyes warm and intense. He smelled of the woods and wild winds. I breathed in deep.
“Why d’ ye dress yerself so, sister?” His voice, deep and sonorous, sent shivers through me. Something from the past hovered out of reach, a chaos of elusive images.
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