'It's safe to tell you because you'll be dead within the hour,' said the ancient woman, drowned in a black robe with shadows obscuring her face.
An old and sickly man, bald from the magic illness writhing below his skin, and barely able to speak, stared at the woman from the bed he was lying on in St Mungo's palliative care ward. The ancient woman had shut the door when she'd entered, and the sickly man couldn't think of anyone nearby who could help. There was an alarm button he could press, and he began to inch his arm towards it, but every movement was agony, and his muscles barely worked anymore. Perhaps his colleague would return and kick this intrusive hag of a woman out of the room.
'Your colleague won't be back in time,' the ancient woman went on, as if she'd read his mind, 'which is what you were wondering.' The old woman held up a hand placatingly as the sickly man struggled in his bed. 'How do I know that's what you were wondering? I simply do. Trust me on this.'
'What... what do you want?' the sickly man asked, looking like a deflated balloon in the hospital bed.
The woman was silent for a very long time. 'I want to tell you a story,' she said. 'My life's work, if you will. I'm unable to share it with anyone else. They'd tear my beautiful art apart simply by knowing it, but you... you're about to die. It doesn't matter what I tell your ears; your mouth won't be able to repeat it to anyone else.' The ancient woman reached out and straightened the sheet laid on top of the old man, before reaching into her robe's pocket and drawing out a small gold coin that looked as ordinary as any other, yet the sickly man couldn't remove his eyes from it if he'd wanted to. It hovered above the ancient woman's palm, endlessly spinning, never falling and never landing. The ancient woman let out a low chuckle. 'Are you lying comfortably? This is going to be a long tale...'