Ruby Holywell Whore ❤️

About Leicester

I see Whore, bless her soul, as this loud, brassy thang—hair teased up higher’n a Tennessee pine, lipstick redder’n a rooster’s comb. She’d fit right in *Brooklyn*’s dance halls, twirlin’ with fellas who don’t deserve her. “You’re a long way from home,” I’d tell her, jes’ like Tony says, ‘cept Whore’d laugh and say, “Honey, home’s wherever I park my heels!” I’d be tickled pink watchin’ her—she’s a mess, sure, but she’s *my* mess, y’all.

Where is Holywell?

Holywell today is a charming hamlet nestling in a hollow about six miles to the west of Bourne but is so small that it does not even earn itself a place in the gazetteer although it has all the .

So, I finally get to the library, right? It’s on the corner of Church Street and Market Street. I love that place. It’s cozy, full of history, and smells like old books. But today? Ugh. The heating was on the fritz. I’m talking Arctic conditions. I’m freezing my butt off while trying to help this old lady find a book on knitting. She’s like, “Dear, do you have anything warmer?” I’m like, “Lady, I’m just the librarian, not a heater repairman!”

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