Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

We stepped into a fairytale. The room seemed to be a clearing in a snowbound winter forest, lit by a gibbous moon. Her Majesty, in roughly human form, sat on a gleaming throne, robed from head to foot in blindingly white fur, and with her glorious hair raining down over her breast like platinum silk. She was eating pink sweetmeats from a silver dish and her lips were sticky with powdered sugar. As we walked forwards, a white wolf uncurled itself from the snow at the Queen’s feet. It snarled, showing sharp teeth that looked stained and yellow against its pristine fur.
Mandrake snarled back at it and it sunk to its haunches.
“One comes.”
It was a second wolf who spoke from the other side of the throne. The Queen looked up briefly. She must have seen us, but there was no spark of recognition in her eyes. I groaned inwardly and spoke to Moth in my head.
‘Spell caster?’
She concentrated fiercely enough to have an ache beginning at the base of my skull.
‘Under tree.’
Sure enough, if I looked carefully enough I could see a figure beneath the noble oak that dominated the scene. He was broad of shoulder and handsome in a theatrical sort of a way. He was also an elf who radiated power, and some of that power was being expended in weaving a spell he was almost certainly going to cast our way. I felt Moth quietly constructing a screen. When the spell hit it shattered into about a million pieces.
The effect was interesting, and I watched, fascinated, as the bits of broken magic burned holes in the elf’s carefully constructed illusion. He became enormously busy putting out fires, which should have been fine. Except. His little difficulty awoke something older and a thousand times more dangerous.
I bespoke my mates urgently. ‘Some creature is coming and it must think us already enchanted while we figure out how to deal.’
I felt their acquiescence before withdrawing my conscious mind to a remote corner and overlaying it with a blanket of uncomprehending obedience. Moth and Mandrake followed suit, and we were only just in time. This wielder of magic needed no fanfares, nor pyrotechnics, nor tricks of the light. He was an old, bent, grey human, who employed no illusions to disguise that fact. Instead, he rather gloried in his plainness, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff and walking on bare brown feet.
One snap of his fingers restored order and he turned his attention to the now squirming elf.
“Why have you been burning holes in an illusion it took me ten years to craft?”
The question was mild enough, but I was fairly sure the answer needed to be good.
“Interlopers. I was seeking to to defend the Queen from interlopers.”
The old magician looked pained.
“Did you bother to find out who these interlopers might be before you started throwing bolts of lightning about?”
The elf muttered something indistinguishable and the master magician laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.
“I thought not. Well I will tell you who they are. They are a female fae of the Queen’s family and her bond-sister who is some sort of half-were. They have lately expanded their bond to include a dragon. It would not be impossible to suppose the fae has brought her new bond-mate to be introduced to her queen. Would it?”
When the elf had no answer, I felt the old one drawing in his will.
“Ten strokes,” he said.
Even as a cruel-looking whip appeared in his hand, I wondered how someone so old and apparently frail would be able to make the elf stand for a beating. But I underestimated his power, because the proud elf drew off his garment and spreadeagled himself against the gnarled bark of the tree, which extruded tendrils and bound him in place. The whistle and snap of the whip echoed around the clearing as did the cries of the suffering elf, but even then the Queen didn’t look up from her greedy enjoyment. This was serious magic, and we were heavily outgunned in that area. We were going to have to rely on guile and brute force – and hope that would be enough.
When the old man had finished punishing the elf the whip dematerialised a she turned his attention to us. I felt the brush of his mind and made sure that he saw a folksy country girl with very little experience of the greater magics. He came over to where we stood and snapped his fingers in front of my face. I allowed my eyes to focus on his face.
“Good day, sir.” I offered him the dimpled smile that has been the downfall of many males, and I felt him soften a little.
“Good day pretty maid.”
I decided that a show of respect would be in order so I curtseyed prettily and manufactured a blush. The sorcerer actually patted my cheek. I managed to resist the temptation to bite off his fingers: just.
“What do they call you?”
“Maisie, sir,” the lie fell from my lips without missing a beat.
“Well, Maisie, what brings you here?”
“We come to introduce our dragon to the Queen’s Majesty, sir.”
He relaxed a little more and creased his face in an approximation of a smile.
“What is your fae called, little one?”
“Her’s called Emily.”
He frowned. “Emily? Since when was that a fae name?”
I showed him a blandly uncomprehending face. “Tis Emily, sir. Like the white star emilies what grow in the woods.”
His demeanour relaxed again. “Ah you mean anemones.”
“Yes, sir. Emilies.”
His smile broadened and I understood he had dismissed me as not too bright and no threat at all.
“And what of your dragon friend?”
“What, Telgar?”
“Yes. Telgar.”
I all but scratched my head. “He’s just a dragon.”
“Indeed. But why do you need a dragon?”
“Because travelling herbalists need security. And he’s a very good…” I let the sentence tail off and hung my head.
“I understand,” he said. “But does he have no other function?”
I shrugged. “He’s a dragon, sir, good for fighting and stuff.”
“But what does he think?”
I managed a look of incomprehension. “He’s a dragon, sir. I don’t suppose he do think.”
Which seemed to satisfy my interlocutor. He regarded me fixedly for a few seconds.
“All of which leaves me with the question of what I do about you.”
“Do about me?”
“Yes, about you and your mates. By rights I should kill you. But you are such a sweet thing.”
I staggered as if he had hit me. “Kill Maisie sir? But I’m a good girl.”
“I daresay, but I can’t have you going around talking about what you’ve seen.”
“What us’s seen? I don’t understand.”
He chuckled, although the sound was humourless and unfeeling.
“I don’t suppose you do.”
He stood for several minutes with his head sunk into his chest and I got the sense of him thinking through his options. For a brief time, I thought my innocent country maiden act had bought us the freedom to walk out of the illusion, however, that wasn’t what the magic wielder decided. It would, I thought, cause him a moment of regret but I saw the second he resolved to kill us where we stood. Me first.
He assembled his features into what he thought was a friendly smile and lifted his hands. I knew my options were few, or perhaps even none, and I resolved to face my fate as bravely as I knew how.
The old one had opened his mouth to say who knew what when there came the sound of a footfall from among the trees behind him.
“Who comes?”
His head snapped around as if on a spring and that was his undoing. He never saw Mandrake move, and I’m fairly sure he didn’t feel the blow that felled him like a rotten tree. Even a powerful sorcerer isn’t proof against having his head stoved in by an infuriated dragon protecting his mates.

Jane Jago

Benjo was an alley cat who lived in Devil’s Lane
He was the biggest alley cat and quite a frigging pain
The children loved to pet him when they came home from school
But Benjo was just letting them, ‘cos Benjo was no fool.

Benjo was the father of every kitten in the ‘hood
It’s not so much that he was bad, it’s more he was too good
At rooting in the rubbish and hunting out each rat
So all night long there was a din, none slept as he got fat.

And when the people rose each morn with bags below their eyes
They’d see Benjo relaxing having won his nightly prize
And though the grown-ups muttered than the damn cat had to go
The children wouldn’t hear of it for all so loved Benjo.

So no one dared remove the dreaded Benjo from his lair
He’d claws as sharp as scimitars if an adult did appear
And though he made a misery of every sleepless night
Benjo was the biggest cat and never lost a fight.

Until one night the neighbourhood was plunged into such quiet
That all who woke, for once refreshed, the mystery enquired
For Devil’s Lane was catless and no one for sure could say
Where Benjo had vanished to upon that fateful day.

Benjo was an alley cat who lived in Devil’s Lane
Until he left the rats behind and ne’re went there again
Now he is a purry cat on pillows stuffed with foam
For Benjo was a clever cat who found himself a home.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

Lying hands, untruthful fingers
Truth may die
Dissembling lingers
Smiling eyes, with hate beneath
Chew through lives
With sharpened teeth
Lying kisses, cold caresses
Love denied
The heart distresses
Lying hands that grip and hold
Steal the warmth
And leave the cold

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Before Ginny could ask her next question there were footsteps on the spiral staircase and Agnes appeared carrying a tray, preceded by the nutty perfume of freshly ground and filtered coffee.
“Sorry for the slight delay,” she said brightly as she handed round the cups, I had to fend off Petunia.” She sat down and lifted her mug in a sort of toast to Ginny. “They all can’t wait to meet you.”
“They?”
“Our Sisters. The Steering Committee of Little Botheringham Ladies Association.” Agnes explained. “That’s me, Agnes, great-great granny and gossip. Lilian who you sat next to at the LA meeting.”
Agnes paused for breath, and Ginny dredged up the memory of a skinny woman with a seamed face and fascinating dreadlocks.
Agnes ploughed on. “Petunia who is a veterinary nurse and who held you down while Em Fed you. Ellen, who is bit of a leftie and a very strident lesbian – especially when she has been drinking. Jamelia, who is quiet, incredibly clever and beautiful. And of course Em who is Queen of our nest.”
Em made a depreciating gesture.
“It really isn’t what you might think. Just the traditional title given to whoever in a vampire community is daft enough to step up to the plate and try and organise things. It’s a very hands-on kind of leadership role. Like most such things, you wind up having to do much of what needs doing yourself.”
“And Em is very good at doing things,” Agnes said. “And at organising the rest of us, which in the case of most of our little community is very like herding goldfish.”
“Don’t you mean cats?”
Agnes grinned. “You tell me – after you’ve met the others.”
Ginny looked between the two women.
“So the Ladies Association is run by vampires?”
“Oh yes. We work very hard to look after the village.”
Ginny thought of the bench outside the village shop and the fundraising for a new minibus for the local primary – and the campaign she’d heard about which had kept the school open. All organised by the Ladies Association.
“You do seem to be very involved in village life.”
Em’s mouth sculpted the hint of a grin.
“You could say that.”
“And a lot of thankless work it is too,” Agnes put in. “I sometimes wonder why we bother with some of the ingratiates.”
“It can be hard work,” Em agreed and took a drink of her coffee.
“So why do you do it?”
Both the women looked at her as if she was asking something that had the most obvious answer in the world.
“This is our home,” Em said gently. “If we didn’t look after it before long it’d be nothing more than a hollowed out dormitory for the wealthy with a sprinkling of second homes and holiday rentals.”
“Like most of the other villages around here,” Agnes added. “Much Botheringham is more like an English village theme park than a real community, and Nether Botheringham has become little more than a suburb of Bedchester and half of that was taken over by an industrial estate.”
Ginny tried to fit the idea of helpful conservationism into her concept of a vampire and what vampires did. And failed. She pushed it aside as something else occurred.
“So about vampires. Are there a lot around?”
“Not that many nowadays.”
“There used to be more?”
“Going back a couple of centuries and some, yes,” Agnes told her. “Too many, in fact. And in the increasing glare of science and mass communication it was becoming harder and harder to keep hidden from humanity. So we had to make some changes within our community. Establish certain norms.”
Agnes sipped her coffee and looked over at Em, who gave a small shrug.
“We just had to make sure we eliminated the troublemakers. It was very obvious that those who caused the most problems were those who had been transformed when young. They still had all the folly and exuberance of youth and never really grew out of it. Imagine a four-hundred year-old with ongoing teenage angst.”
Ginny did, and her eyes widened as Em went on talking.
“And the men were the worst. Vampirism boosts testosterone levels to the point where two could barely be in a room together without having to fight it out to decide who was the ‘alpha’.”
“So that explains all the ravishing young women vampires in the stories and the ravishing of young women by vampires, the overdramatic dress sense and so forth.”
Both Agnes and Em were nodding.
“So we made a new rule. One that would exclude all the most unstable elements from the vampire community. We wanted people who were rational, controlled, wise and careful.”
Ginny wondered which of those descriptors she could actually lay claim to.
“That must be a bit difficult. How do you find such paragons?”
“That was easy,” Agnes said. “The only people who can be made into vampires nowadays are post-menopausal women.”

Part Twenty of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Prize

Growing older is something to prize
It can be a complete surprise
To find you’re still here
At the end of each year
As you marvel at how the time flies!

Eleanor Swift-Hook

In a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve crimes whilst managing family, friendship and domestic crises…

The boot would have caught him in the head. Dai rolled away as it swung in and he took it on the shoulder instead. But the rest of the pack were about to catch up and after the last experience of that, he knew he had two choices, surrender at once or hold on, count the moments and pray. The decision was taken from him as the whistle blew across the field.  Which was just as well because he could not have taken much more punishment.
A hand reached down, attached to a brawny arm.
“Well done, you’re not bad at this are you?”
The mud smothered ball was clutched close into his body and Dai, still winded and bruised from the last assault, took the hand, grateful for anything that might help him back on his feet. A moment later he was reeling back on the ground, shoulder probably half-dislocated as his erstwhile helper was holding the ball aloft and making an earsplitting hooting noise.
Dai lay still, closed his eyes and let the world revolve around him for a few moments. The jubilant cheers and back-thumping slowly faded. It was not the first humiliation he had endured since he had started his career in the Vigiles and he was willing to bet it would not be the last. But at least it would be the last he had to endure on this training course.
This ‘team building’ event was meant to be a treat for the final day. A reward for all the hard brainwork they had been required to put in to qualify for the rank of Investigator. Random draw assigned the teams and they had spent the morning training. Dai had contemplated feigning gut cramps to escape the afternoon match and now he wished he had.
He became aware it was starting to rain. Britannia in the early spring tended to wet and the ground they had been playing on was already part mudslide. The drops were heavy and he decided he was not hurting quite so much any more and probably ought to get up.
“Spado!” He recognised the voice of his team captain and opened his eyes, pushing himself to his feet one knee at a time. A far cry from the players you saw on the sports channels. They would take all kinds of a kicking and just roll to their feet and jog off.
“You must be the most stupid cunnus I ever played in a team with. Giving the ball away to the other side – and that after the whistle.”
“The game was over and I thought -”
“You thought you’d fall for the oldest trick in the book? The rules are merda, Llewellyn – just like what you keep inside your skull. This is harpastum. The Game. They had the ball when the ref got his first view of it after the whistle.”
The anger and disgust on the other man’s face was so intense Dai found himself sinking into a defensive stance. He had no idea how to play harpastum, the messy brawls for glory had never appealed to him, he’d avoided it like the plague during his school years opting for other sports, running and swimming being the ones he favoured most, but he knew how to fight when he had to, that had always been on the sports syllabus in his life. The other man seemed not to notice, he had already turned away and was jogging back towards the building.
Wiping at a splotch of mud which was sliding over his eye, Dai realised he was only spreading more mud as his hand was coated too. In fact, there was not much of him that was not. He squelched back across the pitch, the rain picking up as he did so, and by the time he stepped into the changing rooms, the mud was cascading in rivulets on the floor behind him. He pushed open the door and the conversation dropped as the entire nineteen man team glowered at him.
Dai shook his head and walked past them, heading for the welcome warmth of the shower room. He might have lost the game, but of the five points they had made, two had been his and owed more to his running skill than anything else. The other three had been scored by their team captain, but then that was a man who had been in the under 20s finals at Augusta Treverorum six years ago as he had proudly boasted when putting himself forward for the role. They also seemed to have overlooked the fact that Dai had been the one clutching the ball and defending it with his body when the whistle went. Which, he had been told, was the way to ensure victory in this game. No one had bothered mentioning anything about after the whistle.
They were all gone when he emerged from the shower room, much to Dai’s relief. He had already seen the first purple marks revealed as the mud was washed away and he had a feeling that the following day he was going to be stiff and sore. Fortunately, the following day he would be heading home to attend his half-brother’s wedding and have a week in the fond bosom of his family before starting work as a junior Vigiles investigator for the submagistratus in his hometown of Viriconium.
He was towelling his hair dry and was wondering if he could afford a massage in the baths next door, when the door was flung open by one of the women who had been leading the training course.
“Llew –” She choked off halfway through his name, her mouth open and her eyes wide. Then a light flush of colour brushed her cheeks.
Dai dropped the towel from his shoulders to wrap it around his waist. Well what did she expect bursting into the men’s changing rooms? Romans who did not respect the privacy of non-citizens could expect to get an eyeful of six-pack and extras.
“Apologies, domina,” he said, reaching for his tunic.
“Eh – yes. Well, you were not answering your wristphone so I had to come and find you in person.”
“We were told to keep them turned off or silent.”
“Yes. So you were. So here I am.” She gave a little smile.
Under the cover of his tunic, he undid the towel and finished dressing, aware of her eyes on him and more than a little resentful of the fact she felt free to stare all she wanted. He realised then that he would be glad to be home, away from the coldly Roman Londinium and back in a place where the majority of people he met treated him like a human being.
“What was it you wanted, domina?” he asked, trying to keep the bite from his tone.
“The Prefect wishes to see you immediately.”
The Prefect? He was the man in charge of operations for the Vigiles. A fair few steps down from the Caesar of Gallia maybe, but about as close to that as Dai had ever got. He opened his mouth to ask why and she made a dismissive gesture “That means now, Llewellyn – and after, how would you like to be my guest at this evening’s graduation dinner? We can skip the boring speeches and head back to my place.” She smiled again as she finished speaking and Dai decided she was not at all bad looking for a Roman and very well preserved for her age, which had to be at least ten years over his own twenty-four years. For a moment he was tempted, very tempted. “It’s a sub-aquila apartment,” she said, no doubt hoping to sway him with the promise of the Citizen only levels of luxury which that implied. Instead, it had the opposite effect and Dai found himself shaking his head and tasting a bitter flavour in his mouth.
“You honour me too much, domina,” he said, coldly. It was very obvious she was not used to being refused because her anger was instant.
“The Prefect’s office – now, Llewellyn.”
Then she went, slamming the door behind her.

You can keep reading about Dai Llewellyn in Dying to be Friends by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

I’m in my happy place
The world is all rosy
I’m feeling good today
All safe and cosy.

I’m in my happy place
Outside the storm rages
I’m letting it go by
Lost in a books pages.

I’m in my happy place
Though troubles are many
I’m chilling with TV
And don’t give a penny.

I’m in my happy place
The door closed on worry
I’m letting woes roll by
Not feeling sorry.

I’m in my happy place
Today I can borrow
Time to forget it all
Until it’s tomorrow…

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

Chapter Eight – Unicorn to Fairyland

Moth came back into her own head. Furious.
“Stupid fae won’t talk.”
“Why, dear one?”
“Some creature tells this is not fae business. They believe.”
I groaned. “Does this mean a visit to your Queen?”
Moth nodded. “Mandrake comes too?”
“He does. How do we get there?”
“We ride unicorn.” Moth explained.
“Unicorn?”
I think he thought I might shift my form. But, of course, that is impossible when you are flying into the land of the fae. Falling out of the sky is something to be avoided at all costs. I hastened to explain.
“It isn’t me in unicorn form. The land of the fae is too well protected for that. No. This is a sort of a taxi. Stick your fingers in your ears and shut your eyes.”
He did as I asked and I did the same. Even then, the sound of Moth summoning a unicorn made my bones vibrate and my teeth chatter. Fortunately it was a thing that was over almost as soon as it had begun.
“Why have I never heard that before? And please tell me I won’t have to hear it again.”
Moth bestowed her best sever look on our mate. “Is bonding thing. And you will hear worse.” She grinned at me. “You wait until beloved sings. Now. Furs.”
We shrugged ourselves into our furs and Mandrake had a quick conversation with Purslane. He was intuitive enough to understand the need for hurry without being told, and the three of us were outside in the grey cold when the sound of hoofbeats announced the arrival of our ride.
I don’t know what you may have been told about unicorns, but I’m about willing to bet it’s not the truth. Unicorns are not pink, nor snow white. Their horns are not pretty gilded adornments. And they certainly don’t like anything that isn’t a unicorn – or each other, much, now I come to think of it.
The creature who had come to transport us to the fae lands stood about twenty hands at the shoulder. He – for he was obviously a full stallion – was the colour of a storm cloud and his horn was a twisted, saw-edged weapon that had obviously seen a lot of use. He dropped to the ground showily, deliberately showering us with snow as he slithered to a halt. Mandrake growled and the unicorn took a closer look.
“A dragon. Since when did you own a dragon, Mothwing?”
“Mind business horse.”
The unicorn stamped a hoof and I decided to take a hand.
“Were you summoned here to collect Mothwing and her bonded mates?”
He nodded.
“Well know this then. Here we are.”
“The dragon is bonded?”
“He is.”
The unicorn made a brief obeisance and shook his head so that spume flew from his lips.
“I will carry you three then. In safety.”
“Thank you…” I stretched my mind for a second, “Alsviør.”
He preened that I should know his name, before making the knee so we could mount. When we were settled he turned his head.
“Where to Fairy Mothwing?”
“The seelie court.”
Riding a unicorn is about the most uncomfortable means of transportation you can think of as their flight is best described as a series of leaps and drops. It is vomit inducing, but we managed not to disgrace ourselves.
The landing in the courtyard of the seelie castle was considerably more decorous than at Lyon Hall and we were able to climb down easily.
“I shall await you.” Alsviør nodded his head twice and trotted off.
Moth hawked and spat and Mandrake offered her a tiny bottle from his pocket. “Water and herbs.”
She took a sip and her colour returned to normal. “Thank you, beloved dragon.”
A uniformed elf awaited us. He was a little quieter and more polite than his kind normally are. Mandrake spoke in my head.
‘Elves are generally respectful around dragons.’
‘Why?’
I felt his chuckle in my bones.
‘Elf is something of a delicacy.’
Moth joined the conversation. ‘Hate flesh eating. Could make exception for elves though.’
‘Little bastards.’
Moth climbed onto my shoulder and we followed our guide through the halls with their strangely slanting floors and odd curves. Mandrake snorted and I smiled up at him.
“Yeah. I know but we generally let her majesty have her little joke.”
“Mothwing are you holding,” he asked in his deepest most forbidding tones.
“Moth is fine, have eyes closed. Trusting beloved.”
He put his hand to where she sat on my shoulder and touched her face. The intimacy of the contact was both warming and slightly shocking.
“Behave you two.”
Moth sniggered and our elf guide turned narrow, vicious eyes our way.
“Such behaviour is frowned upon in the seelie court,” it snarled.
Mandrake snarled back and Moth speared him with a glare.
“Mind business, elf.” The dislike she put in that one word was quite enough to start something I didn’t want to have to finish in the domain of the Faerie Queen. I put an admonishing finger on her lips.
“Hush,” I murmured.
She subsided and that should have been that. But the elf was determined to have the last word.
“I can,” it said, “keep you and your ‘bond mates’ walking round in circles forever. I think you had better mend your attitude renegade fae.”
I sighed and snapped my fingers. The seemingly endless corridors disappeared and we stood outside the carved oak doors of the throne room.
“What? How?”
I speared him with a glance. “Mind business, elf.”
An elderly elf, who I recognised from previous visits, came barrelling down the corridor. It spared our guide a sideways glare before bowing so low it’s nose all but met its skinny knees.
“Great Lady. It’s glad I am to see you.”
I smiled at him.
“Is there a problem old one?”
“There is. And idiots like this one are making matters worse.”
The young elf snapped out an oath, and we could feel it beginning to construct a spell.
Mandrake reached out a long arm. He lifted the young one by his neck and squeezed gently.
“Put to sleep,” Moth demanded. “Is bad creature.”
Mandrake rapped the elf’s head against the stone of the wall and it grew limp in his grasp. Moth flew across and touched his face.
“Is pretending.”
Mandrake increased his pressure on the creature’s throat and sure enough its eyes flew open. The elderly elf put a hand on the young one’s head and it screamed faintly before sagging bonelessly in Mandrake’s grasp.
“Is sleep now.” Moth spoke dispassionately.
I turned to the old elf. “Are you permitted to tell me what is wrong?”
It bowed. “I am, Great Lady, but it might be better if you see for yourself.”
“Very well.”
It clapped its hands and two elves in the Queen’s livery threw open the doors of the throne room.

Jane Jago

The cat joined Garth for lunch every day, and he began to notice how thin she was and how dull her coat.

It came to him that she was feeding kittens and he felt a little worried that nobody would feed her on his day off.

He spoke to the master smith, who shrugged massively.

“We can always use cats in the smithy. Speak to Karina.”

Garth spoke to the smith’s comely daughter and between them they fed the little cat.  

By the time she brought them her kittens, Garth and Karina had thoughts of a brood of their own… 

Jane Jago

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

When the priest placed her hand in her new husband’s she knew that this marriage was no more to his liking than her own.

He took her arm gently, and led her from the place. They walked in silence to the top of the sunlit winter pasture. He bent and took off his shoes, before kneeling to do the same for her.

“Shall we run?”

She picked up her skirts, and as her feet crushed the soft grass she felt a jolt of something so piercing and sweet that her heart leapt.

“There is joy in small things,” he laughed. 

Jane Jago