Her chauffeur's voice was properly polite, but there was no mistaking the look of concern in his dark eyes. Where were all the laughing children? Where was the old man with the guitar who always sat on the curb, singing love songs in the strange Spanish dialect of the hills?Įlena looked into the car. The square wasn't as she remembered it, she thought, gazing at the makeshift stalls. She hesitated for a moment, the lacquered nails of one hand resting on the car's brightly waxed door, her green eyes narrowing as she looked around her. She could feel her white linen dress start wilting as the humidity and the smell reached out and wrapped her in unwanted embrace. Elena knew it as soon as she stepped from the icy chill of the Cadillac Brougham into the fetid heat of the marketplace in the centre of Santa Rosa. It had been a mistake to come to the market.
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