A young man, he is, hardly more than a boy--seventeen, eighteen? A beautiful boy, a handsome boy, surely someone's sweetheart, or some mother's pride, fussed over and loved: very surely someone loves this boy, it must be so. Dressed very neatly, if patched, in trousers and a shirt with a little charm for luck and safety embroidered into the collar ( Read more... )

Tristran has traded in the clothes Molly gave him for a proper Victorian, British suit. But today is one of those days when the wind blows from the east, and, try as he might, Tristran cannot pass for a proper Victorian, British man. He just doesn't seem quite human. Tristran tried to remedy this by not venturing outside and not doing anything ( Read more... )

It's not entirely obvious what Jaenelle was trying to do, but it seems to have leaked out of the room she is working in and spread out into the mansion in a sort of lavender, sweet smelling mist. It's relaxing, warm, and very pleasant. One drawback, though - if one breathes in even a little of it, they may become some sort of animal - probably one ( Read more... )

Tristran Thorn is seventeen and chiefly composed of elbows, adam's apple, and copious amounts of awkward. His hair is the color of sodden straw, his right ear flat against his head and almost pointed. His clothes are bright and a bit gaudy, like something a traveling player might wear. He is also the slightest bit damp. He has, after all, been ( Read more... )