Seaside Moors magritte suit

"i be erzulie." the favored greeting, purred a dozen times and no less in this moment. "dis be my home." she gestured to the somnolent roil of heatherfield and anemone, dusted now underfoot with the colder snort of winter-threat, a bite hanging in the air at all hours now.
nothing to see now but the jasmine clinging stubbornly to life at the edge of rusalka, bitter and twining with ivy that crept over the hard faces of scattered boulders. and she knew intrinsically that they could not weather here, but to admit so would be weakness, and to expect this man not to see the same was a fool's errand. he could see, and he had come all the same.
spice-hued ears flicked. "what you be bringin' in barter for it, miranda?" the harlot inquired with the same appreciable directness he had given. a pirate heart in a jezebel's flesh; and she jack of the oldest trade.