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Her pace quick, her step careless, Juniper bounced through the tall grass, a basket clutched close to her chest with waxy, purple sloeberries almost overflowing as she headed back toward the city.
She paused a moment to get her bearings, chattering to herself as she tried to estimate the right direction. "They can't be so bad, can they?" She looked closely at the contents of the basket. "They look sweet enough."
A few days ago, a patron of the Four Lanterns had told her how to enhance her favourite beverage: take gin, add a few handfuls of sloe berries, a generous amount of sugar, a number weeks and a great deal of patience, and you'll have something infinitely more palatable than the rather strong and bitter local gin. The irony, she was told, was that the berries themselves were actually particularly unpleasant tasting.
She plucked a berry from the basket and scrutinised it closely. Every grain of sense screamed to her that she should trust the man's word, there was no reason for him to lie, and that the berries would definitely be sour and were not to be eaten. Her eyes narrowed at the berry, her fingers opened and the berry dropped back into the basket. Her eyes came back up to look at the horizon, as she noted a tree she had spotted on the outward jouney.
"Ah," she declared, "I have my bearings." Her eyes lowered once more, only to find her left hand clutching a palmfull of sloeberries. "Sneaky," she told them; clearly they had jumped into her hand as she scoured the landscape.
The next thing she knew, she was chewing on a sour, bitter mush, the flavour foul and unpleasant, and as she fell to her knees and vomited, she knew with every fibre of her being that it was through no fault of her own.
She paused a moment to get her bearings, chattering to herself as she tried to estimate the right direction. "They can't be so bad, can they?" She looked closely at the contents of the basket. "They look sweet enough."
A few days ago, a patron of the Four Lanterns had told her how to enhance her favourite beverage: take gin, add a few handfuls of sloe berries, a generous amount of sugar, a number weeks and a great deal of patience, and you'll have something infinitely more palatable than the rather strong and bitter local gin. The irony, she was told, was that the berries themselves were actually particularly unpleasant tasting.
She plucked a berry from the basket and scrutinised it closely. Every grain of sense screamed to her that she should trust the man's word, there was no reason for him to lie, and that the berries would definitely be sour and were not to be eaten. Her eyes narrowed at the berry, her fingers opened and the berry dropped back into the basket. Her eyes came back up to look at the horizon, as she noted a tree she had spotted on the outward jouney.
"Ah," she declared, "I have my bearings." Her eyes lowered once more, only to find her left hand clutching a palmfull of sloeberries. "Sneaky," she told them; clearly they had jumped into her hand as she scoured the landscape.
The next thing she knew, she was chewing on a sour, bitter mush, the flavour foul and unpleasant, and as she fell to her knees and vomited, she knew with every fibre of her being that it was through no fault of her own.