Men are brooding; women are mad.

Elsie sat in bed with her wooden lap desk, scratching her wool-covered leg rather than writing.

It’s not exactly nice, knowing that there’s something wrong with you.

I can’t say that I like to dwell on it much either. But I do, all too often.

The two listened as the Hag of Beara wailed in waves.

Jenny stood silently before the familiar wooden door of her bedroom.

Dinner was eventful.

It’s not clear yet if they or I have changed.

The first time that Jenny had seen a carriage, at five years old, it had brought strangers who should have been family.

The past will not be a chain, but a ribbon; I will stride forward at last.