Kitty’s house was like a tribute to anyone who ever believed in living off the land and creating your own happiness. The air inside was always drenched in the scent of something cooking, even though nothing ever was. Something about it reminded me of being inside a library, even though Kitty didn’t have any books.

What always astounded me was the candles.

The thing about Kitty was that she raised bees. Thousands of them, right in the little pasture behind her house, which was comfortably far from the beach. They generated this loud, almost mechanical-sounding buzz that always made me uneasy, no matter how much time I spent in Kitty’s house.

And I spent a lot of time in Kitty’s house.

Anyway, Kitty used the wax from the beehives to make candles. And she scented those candles with herbs she made herself. So even though Kitty was never cooking food, she was always boiling something down.

It felt like a chapel, that house.

Which is ironic, because that’s where they brought me to die.