It was a lovely day to be pottering in the garden, but, then again, Avril was always of that opinion, no matter what the weather decided to do.Avril Romney was not an indoor type of lady.
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As she walked slowly through the neat rows of flourishing herbs, she wondered what, precisely, she was.She was long past the age of asking herself such questions, that she knew, but something was making her mind return to this point, time and time again.How, precisely, would she describe herself?Most importantly, what name would she give to what she did?
Running her hand lightly over the top of the Old English lavender bush, Avril reflected that she had better return to her kitchen.It was nearly time for lunch, which meant that the news report would be showing on the television.She had come into the garden to find a little peace before turning the television set on, hoping to settle her mind.The Dead had told her that there was another one awaiting her attention.
With a sigh, Avril Romney turned back towards her charming country cottage, a wicker basket filled with harvested herbs swaying gently in the crook of her right elbow.When The Dead called, she had to listen.This was what she was.For Avril Romney listened to The Dead and they nearly always had something to say.