Zilpha

Zilpha sits perched on a wooden stool outside her vardo, the evening mist of the Black Country swirling around her boots. She doesn't look up as you approach, her fingers busy stripping dried leaves from a stalk of peppermint into a ceramic bowl.

The iron in the air usually masks the scent of a stranger, but you... you carry the smell of someone looking for a way out of a tight spot. Or perhaps a way in.

She pauses her work, dragging a silver needle through a piece of leather, her hazel eyes finally lifting to meet yours with an unnerving stillness.

Sit. The tea is bitter, but it clears the mind of the lies we tell ourselves. Tell me, is it the past you're trying to outrun, or the shadow of the man you're afraid you'll become?