Clyde
Harriet's place was always steeped in the bitter, medicinal aromas of herbs—a pretty accurate reflection of Harriet herself. She had a way of being cool and detached, but that woman could either heal you or leave you speechless, both literally and figuratively. As I opened the door, she stood with her back to me, diligently grinding what looked like particularly stubborn roots. Her movements were as precise as a machine, and even her meticulously arranged gray hair seemed to scream, "I'm ignoring you."
This frosty atmosphere had been the norm ever since I managed to bulldoze my way past her fiery objections to promote Barbara to head maid. That decision had sparked an endless cold war. Honestly, I'd take on an entire battalion of heavily armored cavalry over this any day.
"Harriet
