A gypsy read my fate when I was small: love deeply, and I will be my beloved's ruin. I laughed then — thunder is nothing to a girl who hasn't been rained on. Power sits in me like riverwater — and my love is doomed. A nice fellow loved me once. He strayed. What came after, the villages sing by night — they call me witch, and they are right. The meadow is mowed; a rope hangs by my door. Come for herbs and leave healed. Come for more — and mind your step, and your heart.