“You’ve got to be pulling my ever-loving, god-forsaken tail.” Jasper Throe grumbled upon seeing the Gray Book. He unceremoniously plopped down the groceries.
The apples were going to be awfully bruised.
This vellum-covered grimoire had the audacity to splay itself on his kitchen counter as though it were a cookbook.
They couldn’t execute my second son because I couldn’t conceive him.
I burned for a second son. I burned like my first son had burned on his pyre: head tilted towards the sky, mouth open and gasping for air, neck tendons standing out like cords as the fire licked his skin and devoured his heart.
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I’m not seasick—I live on this ship, so you can bet I’ve got my sea legs—but the old hag I stole the chalice from at New Providence must have been a witch. Her nasty shout as I ran made me smirk, but… I’m turning green. She must have cursed me!
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