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No common sorceress could cast this spell Which all things meager and poor do repel; With all the darkness washed away, To your divine fire do I pray.

Silent, these wordless whispers enchant, And on this night, my faith do I recant While into yours, my heart do I decant. And I pray, perchance, That I may, perchance, Be let into your grace, and dance.

"I'm standing on the precipice," is how these stories go; "and in my death may I find bliss." Oh, we know, we know. "My heart is black, the skies are bleak," is what the girl would say; but now I bid the woman speak, and I'm reborn today. "My body I cannot abide," is what I might have said; how new to me, to now decide I'd rather not be dead. Now here I stand, on precipice: here I choose life, and I find bliss.

Tell me, Miss, are you a good Christian girl? With your gilt-chain cross, the Christ dangling Between your barely-covered breasts? Does He watch you undress for your lover? How many times did you cry in ecstasy? When were you last at Mass? Tell me, Ma'am, are you a good Christian woman? With your lips that scream fidelity, And your eyes that whisper adultery? Can you remember the last time that you Cried when you prayed? Yet you can tell me how many buttons He has on his shirt. Tell me, Boy, are you a good Christian child? Do you say your bedtime prayers, give thanks for food, and help your mother bake the bread? Do you sit an

I'm almost tempted to cop out and play the "Our parents didn't understand us" card, but even I can't delude myself into thinking it's that simple. Besides, I'd rather hold onto that card for later in the game. To be fair, Mom tried to get to know us, when she had time--not that Holly and I made it easy on her. Since the very beginning, we were in a world of our own, approachable but untouchable by the rest of the world. So even when our mother found time between laundry, cooking, sleeping, and her shifts at the mill, and she would sit down with us to ask how we felt, what games we were going to play that day, or what we wanted to do on the w

A part of me wasn't sure it worked; it had been a long time since I entered the Midlands from this side, and their resemblance to the Brotherland this time was uncanny. I stood from where I was kneeling, brushed the dust from Emilie's skirts, and looked behind me to find the oak tree still standing there. I turned, slowly. If I were in the Midlands, shouldn't there have been a river here? "The Moonlit Waters only apear to those who come to cross over." I spun on my heel to find her standing under the tree; thick emerald shadows dripped from the leaves overhead, splashing across her hair and bosom. "I could sense you you here, looking for me,

Romance of the Sisterland, Act III: Divinity Abroad Prologue I can still feel it. When I close my eyes, when I sleep, when I dream--it's like I'm back there again. I can still feel my cheeks burn as the wind lashes out, trying in vain to grab ... something; keep it close. I can still smell the salt and summer lavender on the air and the blood in the soil--it's oozing up, as though the earth itself is bleeding, crying for its fallen children, willing itself to die along with them. It's on my hands, in my skirts, in my tears. So many lives, so many memories, but this is the one that always comes back, no matter where I sleep, no matter who I

Romance of the Sisterland, Act IV: Chorus of the Damned Prologue Unlike most of my kind, I chose to give away my immortal soul. Trust me, it is not the choice a wise man makes. But then, during my mortal life--if you could really call it that--I was not the type of man many would accuse of being wise. Foolhardy, perhaps; headstrong, to be sure. Lovesick ... well, she was the only one who saw that; and though our love was no decision of our own, we embraced it and each other like no other couple in history. But she saw, too, that I was noble and good-willed, insofar as a mortal man can be. And that is why she killed me. I remember my fir

Preface: an Introduction to The Sisters of Southgate There are many stories like this one in the world, that tell the tale of the War of the Princes. Some of them are about the sad Prince Michael, some of them are about the proud Prince Logah; others tell the story from a different side, like Paul Rutherford, who was a friend of both princes, or Sir Harry Tanner, who was a knight that fought in the war. And even though most of these stories are true, they usually ignore one very important truth: that all of these men, and all of these stories, are tied together by two very important women: Theresa Everett and Abigail Quincey. Historians--pe