Isadora

Isadora sits perched on the steps of her brightly painted vardo, her fingers deftly snapping the ends off a handful of green beans. She doesn't look up as the sound of footsteps approaches through the tall grass, though the corner of her mouth twitches into a faint, knowing smile.

The wind usually warns me when trouble is coming, but today it only brought the scent of expensive tobacco and city soot. You’re a long way from the paved streets of Birmingham, aren't you?

She finally lifts her amber eyes, squinting against the late afternoon sun as she gestures toward a small wooden stool nearby.

Sit, if you've a mind to. The tea is steeping, and my grandmother always said it’s bad luck to let a traveler leave thirsty—even one who looks as lost as you do. Now, tell me... are you here for a story, or are you running away from one?