"Thank you, Marko," Letitia Greengrass said with a smile, as the young man - tall and so musclebound his shirt barely contained him - handed her a drink. As soon as the glass was in her hand, she reached up and caught his retreating wrist with her free hand, pressing her lips against his skin and giving him a wink.
Muriel looked away, disgusted by the display.
Letitia Greengrass was in her nineties, an new money matriarch with a bouffant of hair charmed so white it was almost blinding. She had a ring on every finger and a penchant for gambling that she indulged by hosting charity poker nights. Muriel was here to convince her to dedicate her next one to the Witches' Agricultural Initiative, but mostly she was busy finding the woman detestable. Marko was the hired help that she employed to keep her gardens and fix her drinks. He was barely twenty. Letitia's husband was in the next room. Some people had no shame at all.
"Really Letitia," Muriel said, as Marko left the room. "Must you?"
The woman smiled at her with teeth far too white for her age. "Why not?" she said. "We can't all be dried up prunes."
When Muriel departed, she was fairly certain that the Witches' Agricultural Initiative would not be receiving Greengrass patronage. There may have been words like 'crass', 'vulgar' and 'harpy' involved.
Muriel didn't regret it for a moment. Letitia was all of those things and more. What kind of witch broadcast her indiscretions for everyone to see?
Muriel was furious. Her fingers were white with rage and she was sure the colour in her cheeks spoke of it, too. And she was a dried up prune, was she?