The people in town were superstitious folk, more inclined to pass judgment on a strange girl for her nonconformity than to attempt to understand her for her merit. Kelty knew better than to reveal this uncanny sorcery, least of all to her grandfather.

He'd skin you for sure, came the Voice unbidden.

"Help me find my boots," she snapped. "Or leave me be."

Tarred and feathered. Drawn and quartered. Keel-hauled. Marooned. Defenestrated. Beheaded. Hung!

"I'd slip the noose," Kelty smirked.

Pardon?

"Can't hang me proper if he beheads me."

Hmph, grunted the Voice. Your boots are there.

Kelty saw them, grateful for a reprieve from the snow and its bitter chill on her feet.