Sublime

‘She’s called Rhiannon,’ says the landlord. ‘My late wife named her that. Welsh, she was. Very fond of all the old stories.’ ‘Ah,’ says Lancelot. He tries not to sigh too loudly. It would have been too much to ask that the horse would be called Beryl, or Snowdrop. He can’t meet a horse without it being the queen of horses. He can’t drink from a str

It was the Jungle Crow, perched on its usual spot on the branch of the cedar.

“The floor’s got more cat fur than rug.”

Midafternoon on the second day, there was an ungodly commotion downstairs. Halla heard shouts and a scream, and for one moment thought that someone might be coming to rescue her. She half-rose from her seat by the window. Then she heard a guttural voice shouting, “Hellfire! Hellfire and burning for the worm, the worm that gnaws the roots of the wor

The winter is a sheet of parchment that the small feet of birds, of vixens, of hares, write upon.