I caught her watching from her bedroom window that can see over the hedge. Made me smile that, poor thing, has no idea what we were actually getting up to when the lights went out.Then the Sunday clean up. Oh, of course that's when she had to come over to complain. Wouldn't dream of coming over and actually enjoying herself but sure when I'm hanging like a dog that's when she knocks. Wearing jeans that look painted on to those firm legs, heels, that is a good look when you look like her. And that top, brown, knitted wool or cotton, showing off her midriff. I keep looking at her via my phone, one of those video doorbells. She's no taller than the top of my chest, 5 3" maybe? I feel a familiar stirring despite my hangover as I get up.I trudge to the door, past a few half-naked bodies, surveying the wreckage. Cleaner arrives in an hour, poor girl, I better leave some extra cash. Can't wait to get out and grab brunch somewhere. I snag a towel and wrap it around my waist, opening the door. To be the chosen maiden was a rare and treasured honour.By tradition, the names of all girls whose birth records showed themselves to be eligible were placed in a basket of Somerset willow and a name publicly drawn at random under the market cross the week before Midsummer Eve. This year, the name drawn was that of Susannah Underhill, whose family had farmed in the area for as long as anyone could remember. This was agreed to be an excellent omen, as was the fact that Susannah was an attractive girl, with long golden hair and fine skin, but strong and healthy as well.*The sun was already low in the sky on Midsummer Eve when the townsfolk gathered in the market place for the rite to begin. Susannah was brought from her family’s home wearing just a simple woollen shift, and she sat at the foot of the market cross while her hair was braided with wild-flowers by the younger children. A procession then led her through the town, past the empty Abbey and across the fields to the ancient.
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