there’s a woman with a chip in her shoulder; her name is Galatea, and she rebuts all the advances all the men around her make. there’s a man with time on his hands—his kind are the reason most who come to these…
“we always keep a canary there in our apothecary—you never know when an apprentice’s pestle will press with a bit too much zeal. and there, behind the catsbeds and crowspens, that’s where we keep miss Catherine’s wheel—eh, for spinning, of course, that…
“it’s a skyhook,” he said, swinging the cord in slow, faintly humming circles at his side. Culvert watched closely, clutching tight the coin he’d won from the bragging bride in Brixton. (luck. it clings to such small things.) his eyes were fixed…
Whim the Weedwise teaches, “follow your first name, the one was never given you, the one before the game. (she means the game of yes and no, of black and white; the game of here and there, and now and then, and…
“one thing at a time,” she says, reminding, reprimanding—funny, how she always finds the task that’s most demanding. last week it was “look me only in the eyes”; before that, a week without whisperwhite lies. why her waves are weeklong, i have…
we planned it over years, giving word only from mouth to ear. we envisioned it simple and sudden and strict: all of them would go, no exceptions, no remorse. we didn’t talk of any after, didn’t predict what might occur when our…
water warrants, by its winding: burning is a brand of binding. wendigo whispers on the wing: skinning skies soothes star[v]ing’s sting. willow waves in winter wild: choices chisel chief from child. in the white between day and night, the acolyte is winnowhittled.…