Bonns Tah Duss

The man at the door, crooked and knobbed like a blasted oak, speaks with an accent from nowhere.  Laz only picks out the last couple of sentences:

“By, choo bess risspeck Mess Claudine, or I swars I’s goan kilt che.  Grawned che bonns tah duss.”

Laz nods, stares.  The man opens the door, waves him in with long fingers.  The house smells of jasmine, cinnamon, moss, a heavy, hot smell that slows his blood.  Miss Claudine is draped in a silk sheet and not much else.

“Sit yourself,” she purrs.  “Tell me of the bones.”

Laz shakes, like sudden waking.

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