Across town, in a grey row house flanked by white azaleas, there was a bedroom alarm clock that seemed to have shirked its morning duties. Glory Grey was lying in bed face down, the sun streaming in slats across her back, which was clad in a very soft but nearly threadbare flannel nightgown. The alarm was supposed to have gone off an hour ago, and here she was. The house was quiet. The old baseboard heating hummed faintly, sending tendrils of warmth across the weathered pine floorboards. Softly, a clicking sound came skittering down the un-carpeted hallway to the bedroom where Glory was sleeping. A sizable but not obtrusive weight introduced itself onto the quilted bed, the antique frame creaking, and something wet dragged up the side of Glory's face.

"Waylon," she groaned into the pillows, tugging on one of the dog's ears. "Do you have to pee or something?"

Quiet settled in the house again, aside from the excited snuffling of Waylon's damp black nose. For a moment, Glory remained in her prone position, nestled in layers of blankets.

"Oh, custard..." she muttered, then rolled over onto her back and swung herself forcibly upright, reaching for the alarm clock on her bedside table and holding it close to her face so that her sleep-blurry eyes could make out the numbers. "Damnation!" She threw back the quilt that covered her, leapt to the floor, and ran to the bathroom, Waylon hot on her heels, his brown ears flopping as he hopped along behind her. On a wooden shelf above the old claw-foot bathtub were bottles and vials with hand-printed labels on brown paper. She pulled one down and popped out the cork with her teeth. A dollop of pale cream poured out into the palm of her hand, smelling distinctly of figs, and she ran the substance through the wild bird's nest of dark brown hair on her head until it was tame enough to be woven into a braid. The rest of her morning routine was completed in haste. She threw on a knee-length black dress with tiny white flowers on the skirt, which had a line of pearl buttons up the back. Boots, white gloves, and a black felt hat completed the look, though the boots had seen better days.

In the kitchen on her way out, Glory stopped by the garden door, over which hung a heavy charm of sorts fashioned from a horseshoe, a cross, and some twine. The pane of glass in the kitchen door looked out onto a small but densely green back garden. Glory muttered a brief prayer under her breath and the metal bits of the charm seemed to crackle with electricity for an instant. She grabbed a covered basket from the counter and headed for the door. Out of the corner of her eye as she left, she spotted one of her hanging ivy plants in the small front foyer which was drooping and beginning to turn brown. She turned to glare at it.

"Stop that," she said firmly. Intimidated, the ivy flushed a healthy green again. Glory left the row house, Waylon the dog in tow, and climbed into her El Dorado, which would take her to her new job. She had only been there for a week, and already she was coming in late. She shook her head, gripping the wheel a little tighter in her demurely gloved hands. When she reached the weathered red-brick office building, she took the front steps two at a time. As she sped past them, the boxwood hedges on either side of the steps seemed to turn a little greener. In the lobby of W&R, she paused, caught her breath, and held the basket in her hand aloft.

"Sorry I'm late," she said to no specific person in particular, but more to the office as its own entity, "But I brought corn muffins for break- ... Oh, there are doughnuts." 

Crestfallen, she lowered her basket of savory treats. Waylon sniffed at the basket curiously, decided it didn't contain anything of interest to his canine tastes, and wandered off.