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The Garden Where No One Ever Goes

My jug is still dry. My magic has always been difficult, complicated, messy. In my mother's parlor, all my will can barely manage a droplet. Even by the banks of the sacred Cantara, I gave up and drew my water with a bucket. But in the garden, when I'm with you, magic is so simple that it seems to happen on its own.

I meet you in the middle of the night in the garden where no one goes. 
After Me, The Flood

My city trembled and screamed as the waves battered the granite. The wall still held when the storm waned, but the sea-quake had frightened us all. That night, as soon as my hands stopped shaking, I wrote a letter to my father, asking him to send a magician. I sealed it with the imprint of my thumb in the warm wax; he always said that a caress, even at a remove, was better than a cold signet.

I was still not my mother. But all I could hear now was the sea, whispering in a rhythm that matched my heartbeat and slid under my teeth.
Audio Fiction Podcast:
The Garden Where No One Ever Goes

Podcast: Download (Duration: 14:22 — 9.87MB)
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I meet you in the middle of the night in the garden where no one goes. 
From the Archives:
Two Bodies in Basting Stitch
Sere wouldn’t be able to send letters.