[Three random words… Go!]
A wager, a simple bet. The risk assessed. Drink the bitter chamomile, gulp it down, the faded yellow blossoms at the bottom of cup, slam the cup down and read the fate therein.
The old woman glared into the cup, then turned her head to spit black tar on the snowbank.
“You’ll never get there,” she croaks.
She doesn’t laugh or pat your hand sympathetically. She is paid to read the leaves and that she does now go. You will never get there.
Roscoe waits for you further along the road huffing warm breath into his cold hands.
“Well? Did she say it? Did she tell you you’d get a girl? She always does.”
You think about her proclamation and look into Roscoe’s eager eyes.
“You called it. First drink’s on me.”
In the morning you saddle up your horse. Roscoe is still sleeping with an incautious head. You ride off, making your way to the distant city thinking the old woman doesn’t know anything.