While friends and lovers mourn your silly grave/I have other uses for you, Darling
[Sunday, December 27 (day 210)]
[Mid-late morning, by the Sacred Whore]
Minded to step out for coffee, and head out a touch earlier than I might otherwise; between the Dormouse being shut and the after-church crowd, Miskatonic'll be more crowded than usual come lunch. Planning t'stop by Dorian's shop on the way up Silk, see if he cares t'come along and come back home for lunch. Air's crisp and sky's clear, and all told it's pleasant enough.
Been fine holidays, and that's well enough, though I think it made the minding of Alessandra harder. Not sure what to do, or how, and ended up bringing by a tourtière, same's I did for the Parsons. Gave it t'Walter, and if it was a fool's gesture, he didn't show it.
I'm glad her son's dead. I'm safer now he's dead, as are mine, but the whole of it... there's a low unease to it.
Thinking of Alessandra as I walk up t'the porch, and the grim tangle of it, and I'm reaching my hand towards the door afore I realize that I'm more than ill at ease, there's a low crawling 'neath my skin and my flesh is cuddling up hard 'gainst my bones.
Spit and staunchweed, not again.
Step in and Dorian's not in immediate sight and in either case it's moot, can feel the murdered and unburied dead like snakes under my skin. "Winnie," I say, moving to the back of the shop, and the feeling's growing louder, a wriggling buzz sets my teeth on edge, "go fetch the Sheriff."
[Open to Mab (and possibly others)]
[Mid-late morning, by the Sacred Whore]
Minded to step out for coffee, and head out a touch earlier than I might otherwise; between the Dormouse being shut and the after-church crowd, Miskatonic'll be more crowded than usual come lunch. Planning t'stop by Dorian's shop on the way up Silk, see if he cares t'come along and come back home for lunch. Air's crisp and sky's clear, and all told it's pleasant enough.
Been fine holidays, and that's well enough, though I think it made the minding of Alessandra harder. Not sure what to do, or how, and ended up bringing by a tourtière, same's I did for the Parsons. Gave it t'Walter, and if it was a fool's gesture, he didn't show it.
I'm glad her son's dead. I'm safer now he's dead, as are mine, but the whole of it... there's a low unease to it.
Thinking of Alessandra as I walk up t'the porch, and the grim tangle of it, and I'm reaching my hand towards the door afore I realize that I'm more than ill at ease, there's a low crawling 'neath my skin and my flesh is cuddling up hard 'gainst my bones.
Spit and staunchweed, not again.
Step in and Dorian's not in immediate sight and in either case it's moot, can feel the murdered and unburied dead like snakes under my skin. "Winnie," I say, moving to the back of the shop, and the feeling's growing louder, a wriggling buzz sets my teeth on edge, "go fetch the Sheriff."
[Open to Mab (and possibly others)]