Veronica Sage, light of foot, stealthy raider of late summer orchards.
Quietly, she would hitch up her dress and slip off her deck shoes, and disappear into foliage, branches swaying, leaves rustling, and twigs snapping. Then, her head would appear, pupils closing to pin pricks in the setting sun, and there Veronica Sage would descend to the soft verdant grass below.
A crisp red apple in hand.
Bourne 