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“Dying on the Elephant Road,” by Steve Rasnic Tem
Abe experienced the odd sensation of Madame Oljon inside his head aligning her face with his, pushing eyes and lips forward past his own as they both stared at the small figure near the center of the room sitting cross-legged on a high cushion, naked save for a loincloth, smiling idiotically (not unlike, Abe thought, the wizard Philoneus’s own idiotic smile).
“Beloved of the Sun,” by Ann Leckie
I had seen the image in the Zuxugo girl’s cloak, in the basketful of butterflies she had brought, but those had been stylized and lifeless. These butteflies were alive, brown, with one wide, staring eye on each upper wing. They didn’t fly straight as the hawk would have, but bobbed and circled, haphazard. Their wings were far more delicate than any gold or stone image could depict.
“More Full of Weeping Than You Can Understand,” by Rosamund Hodge, from BCS #53
For the first few years, Violet only passed information, while the reports of faery incursions began to grow. Then–when they went to London for her introduction into society–three things happened. The faeries turned the Prime Minister’s fingers into twigs and his eyes into acorns. Papa died. And Thomas discovered what she was.
But experience had taught me that dissertations on magical systems are incredibly dull for all save the oblivious nincompoop who actually believes anyone wants to listen. No, when people ask you what you ‘do’, all they really want is a snappy line or two they can repeat over dinner later. Well, to hell with that.