The Witch’s Grave Read Online Free PDF

me, and the small room seemed clogged with people. Tall, rangy women stood in a line and were being poked and prodded by a small man with a thin mustache. A tape measure dangling from around his neck swayed as he flitted down the line from woman to woman. Each one stood patiently while he yanked at their clothes and fluffed their hair. Then with a push, he sent them out between curtains hung across the doorway. Each time the curtains parted, the cloying smell of perfume wafted through the room.
    What was he doing?
    “Madeleine, get in line. You’re next.”
    As I looked around to spot Madeleine, a rotund woman grabbed my arm and began to pull me toward the little man.
    Me? I’m Madeleine? I tried to take a step, but something was wrapped around my knees. I stumbled.
    “What is wrong with you today?” she asked with a yank, righting me.
    This is so weird. I minced along beside the woman until I was in front of the little man.
    “Tsk tsk,” he hissed while pinching at my waist. “No more croissants for you. You’re lucky this still fits.”
    Wait a second, this might be a dream, but I didn’t need some strange little man telling me what I could or couldn’t eat. I tried to take a deep breath in order to deliver a scathing reply, but the bodice was so tight, my ribs barely moved. My eyes traveled down.
    No jeans, no long flowing dress—instead I wore a tight-fitting jacket that flared over my hips. It had shoulder pads that made my silhouette look like a linebacker’s. Its material was black with tiny white polka dots. A body-hugging skirt of the same material completed the ensemble and seemed to swaddle my legs to mid-calf. No wonder I couldn’t walk.
    “Look at me,” the man commanded. He lifted my chin and turned my head from side to side. “More powder,” he said with a snap of his fingers.
    A woman in a white smock scurried over and dusted my nose and cheeks with a soft puff full of fine, light powder.
    I sneezed.
    “Zzt, none of that,” he scolded. “Do you want them to think you’re sick?” Reaching up, he drew a net veil down over my face.
    It felt scratchy on my nose, and I lifted a hand to brush it away, but the man stopped me.
    “Leave it alone. I know you don’t like hats, but the customers do.”
    With a shove, he sent me out through the curtains.
    My startled eyes flew around the room.
    The entire room was decorated in white and gold. The walls were white satin and the floor was covered with gold carpet. Large vases of creamy white lilies on gold pedestals littered the room. Elegantly dressed women, with hair so blond it was almost white, stood in clusters, sipping pale liquid from fluted, crystal glasses. The tall women I’d seen inthe little room strolled from group to group, pausing in front of each and doing a little pirouette. The blond women studied them with arctic blue eyes, and a couple of the blondes lifted thin, penciled eyebrows as they sized up the clothes the tall women wore.
    I’m at some kind of a fashion show and I’m one of the models.
    The thought ricocheted through my brain and I stifled a laugh.
    Me? Ophelia Jensen? The fashion challenged Ophelia Jensen? A model?
    It was ridiculous even for a dream. Had to be the stuff Abby put in the tea to make me dream something as crazy as this.
    I took one halting step forward then stopped when I noticed the blondes’ companions—a group of men in the corner sitting rigidly on white chairs trimmed in gold. They were dressed in gray uniforms, with epaulets on the shoulders and collars trimmed in silver braid. Their posture was stiff and they all looked bored. One man, with close-cropped hair, drummed his fingers impatiently on his thigh as he spun a peaked hat with a visor in his other hand. He stopped and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. As he did, the gold medal on his jacket pocket caught the light. An iron cross with some kind of insignia stamped in its center.
    The veil covering my face made it difficult to see, and I