The Windflower

It’s at your most lunatic moments that I can resist you least.

There's more to love than two pelvises in a tussle.

Merry Patricia Wilding was sitting on a cobblestone wall, sketching three rutabagas and daydreaming about the unicorn.

It’s one thing to watch someone row; it’s quite another to try it oneself in heavy seas, and this was a bad moment to begin wondering if the American privateers on the Good Shepherd would be certain to help her and if there was any chance that Devon might have lied about the Shepherd’s identity.

I’d love to see him lay a single strip on her white back. It would be the most potent lesson either of them ever got.

he smiled at her as though he had not with a single sentence blown the sane structure of her life into slithering fragments.

its muscles white and glistening beneath its creamy hide, its chest broad and heaving, its horn poised and thick.

August passed like a dancer, graceful and sweating.

The hostage hours had blurred into one another, anonymous as a line of smashed pumpkins.

Chopped up fairy wings, the heart of a narwhal taken during a lunar eclipse, spit from a consumptive.… Christ. Just drink it, will you?