I should have gotten out of here months ago!” She opened the passenger side and reclined in the bucket seat. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. “They have just taken this house from Lady Cellender. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics.
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