George sat on the park bench, the crumpled, hateful pamphlet still clutched in his hand. The sun was warm on his face, a stark contrast to the cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had tried to tune out the whispers of the people around him, but it was impossible. The city was a hornet's nest, and the pamphlet was the stone that had been thrown into it.
A well-dressed couple, the woman's hand resting on the man's arm in a clear display of courtship, passed by his bench. They both held copies of the pamphlet.
"And I thought she was such a well-coordinated, respectable young woman when I saw her at the Grayson's ball last season," the woman said, her voice full of a disappointed disapproval.
The man beside her let out a cynical scoff. "Who cares about respectability? She is a beautiful woman, and beautiful women like her are often trouble. She is just a witch who knows how to use her face to get what she wants."
