Word count: 100
“That’s odd.” Cordelia stopped, tugging Montague’s jacket as he walked ahead.
“What’s that, pippin?” He stepped backwards, eyeing the boots, and came to rest behind his wife’s shoulder.
Cordelia reached out. “Where did these come from?”
“Best not to touch dear.” Montague chided gently. “Probably belong to that brute gardener next door.”
Walking on, Cordelia briefly imagined that distasteful man grimace brown-toothed spittle at the effort of strapping his boots together.
In another realm, the gardener (whose name was Simon) gawked at the abrupt change in surroundings; a beautiful estate all his own.
“All I done was touch the boot.”