At last I allowed my self to touch her, gingerly sliding my fingers along the skin of her calves, up to her knees. As if by magic, they softly parted, and my breath caught - my eyes riveted to the cloth covering her “special place” as she calls it. As her legs spread a little, the cloth became taut and slid up just a little, revealing another inch of her thighs. Also, it wafted her scent up to me - a heady mix of her natural aroma and the body oil that she used when she took a bath before bed.It was with force of will alone that I restrained my hands from ripping the cloth up and revealing what I was after. Now that I could smell her, it was a real struggle. I was going to get what I wanted, but patience would be rewarded, I told myself. I looked up at her face, now partly revealed. Her mouth opened briefly and closed. I listened and she was still breathing softly and evenly. Flexing my fingers again to calm my nerves, I reached for the edge of the cloth and tried to ease it upward.. Now, in the sunlight dappled with clouds, the stones appeared innocuous. They stood at the edge of a small meadow surrounded almost entirely by forest and away from the road and the pasture where they had stopped the carriage.The circle, if it could be termed such, was an irregular one, and the stones, almost all of them taller than man-size, tilted at one angle or another. In the years since they were placed in position shifts in the soil and the winds and rain had conspired to permit them to relax in a random fashion. Granite, thought Amélie, which meant the stones themselves were probably not of local origin. The principal stone in the quarries in the surrounds was limestone.Mistress Heathcoate had been unable to tell them how old the stones were. “Aye, they’ve always been a part of Oxford, you know? No one really knows how long they’ve been here, or when they were set where they are. They aren’t natural, you know that, but all of the oldest legends and stories about this place.
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