The plough boy Tom burned a different colour; a mix of jealous green and blue regret. Typical of a young man, losing his purse in an unfair wager.
The witch could see two snakes writhing in the boy's head. Still, to his credit, he kept his tongue when ill placed words would have caused much harm to all present. If he could weather the coming storm, he would have grown into his boots, as Meg's mother would have said.
Each person crushed into Meg's cot had their own story to tell. Maybe his was hasty revenge and slower repentance. Either way she could see a path for him. If his heart survived the next few minutes.
Meg tells me three more 6 minute chunks will end this. Shall we let her? She says it will end well. But she would say that, wouldn't she!
I don't know, Mike, it seems like there are more loose ends here than three, six minute stories will tie off. But, Meg would know.
I do all sorts of things. Mostly badly. Mostly better than others. I tell stories. Occasionally, I lie.
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