Sublime

Northern Ó’Neills

Mercy’s mother was sheathed in a violet dress and wore silver chains in her hair and around her neck, all set with amethysts. Her hair drifted like part of the shadows, and she tapped black lips with fingernails of purple crystal as she walked.

A secret kept. A record made. The first mark she left upon the world, long before she knew the truth, that ideas are so much wilder than memories, that they long and look for ways of taking root.