I meet you in the middle of the night in the garden where no one goes. 

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There is no safety for us anymore in the waxing and waning of the moon.

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You carry a rifle and a dream of a white dress. You sleep under the stars. You hunt.

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A more tunnel-like hole had been dug into some of the graves, possibly to test them for the freshness of the corpses.

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A pause only Winnifletch herself notices, a twinge in her guts as she unsacks the gull that Gert Mews has lugged to her sea-spindle shack.

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I have wondered these past two years which of us would meet our end first—myself or the city.

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On the fourth night... ...I was at a wedding.

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The augur could read on her skin that she would be cared for by an old man who was not her kin.

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I hear you are yourself of low birth, Monsieur de la Martinière, and so may understand what it’s like to experience, for the first time, not even luxury but safety.

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