To catch a glimpse of her was to stop and catch your breath in wonder. There was little about her self that was remarkable: lips like raspberries, skin like milk, a simple dress, dark curls of hair. She was plain, but the veil, the veil made her ethereal. It was like sunlight captured, woven, and spun, a resplendent crown upon her dark head, pouring over her shoulders like holy oil. She said not a word, made no move to accept obeisance or the worship surely due someone of so glorious a diadem. She barely raised her eyes from the ground as she walked. Creamy-white feet pad through the dust, from the temple, through the market, to city square and babbling fountain. This water was never drawn, drunk, or even touched. That was what the well in the market was for. This fountain was sacred, like an oasis in the desert. Sacred to Melusina, the water goddess. And this woman was come to read her will. Read it in the current, the ripples, the waves, and the froth. She was the lady of the waters, Melusina’s oracle.
The golden veil cast sunlight shimmers on the water as the oracle took her snowy hands and did the unthinkable: she sank them into the fountain.