I was out of sorts the first time I saw her, piqued for a reason I have long since forgotten. It left me in an odd mood. There she was, a beautiful girl, ushering her younger sisters to evening mass, her proud father and fretting mother walking behind them like talking illustrations of the late Jane Austen’s works, and I found myself following her ( Read more... )

Christmas Morning, and when her eyes open, she thinks for a moment it is some time during the nineteenth century, some year where she and Drusilla were playing into the Jack the Ripper scare by leaving particular gifts in front of the houses of the good citizens ( Read more... )