Looking for a Place to Die - Claire Polders
My memories and I sleepwalk into town, arm in arm, down the street of black stockings and long skirts, our flat heels click-clacking on the cobblestones. We pass the hat shop with its window of false promises behind which forgotten heroines change into child brides before our eyes. Horse carriages—the sting of dung—thunder by, so loud that talking to our sisters becomes impossible.