The morning air at the Lothian docks tasted of wet pine and old, musty earth, and Jocelynn Blackwell decided that this was a fitting combination for a woman nursing the worst hangover of her young life.
She pulled her fur-lined cloak tighter against the cold as she descended the worn stone steps that led from the city's outer wall to the sprawling fish market below, doing her best to ignore the way the world seemed to pulse gently with each beat of her heart.
The wine from Ashlynn's memorial had been a rich, dark Lothian red, the kind her sister used to say tasted like 'autumn in a goblet,' and Jocelynn had consumed far too much of it in the company of ladies who seemed determined to keep her cup filled and the wine flowing no matter how much she'd tried to hold herself back.
