"I hope not. We only burned Andraste, imagine if they’d shoved her in a pie."
Isaac lifts his fist to inspect. Sticky fruit dribbles to soak his sleeve, spatters the wood below. The slant of his chin, waiting for Richard, isn't unamused — it stays him a further moment, before at last reaching for the kerchief.
There are some things that you excuse after you’ve done them. This little secret wouldn’t mean a pyre, nothing like the others he keeps; but even Ilias’ work draws the wrong sort of attention. When people write of witches, they write of withered things.
"But I don’t imagine they’d look kindly for the waste." He works the clot first from stubby nails, then down his arm, to the desk at last. The apple’s corpse lies half-crushed upon cloth. "For all faith, some things can’t be remade."
they call him triple d
Isaac lifts his fist to inspect. Sticky fruit dribbles to soak his sleeve, spatters the wood below. The slant of his chin, waiting for Richard, isn't unamused — it stays him a further moment, before at last reaching for the kerchief.
There are some things that you excuse after you’ve done them. This little secret wouldn’t mean a pyre, nothing like the others he keeps; but even Ilias’ work draws the wrong sort of attention. When people write of witches, they write of withered things.
"But I don’t imagine they’d look kindly for the waste." He works the clot first from stubby nails, then down his arm, to the desk at last. The apple’s corpse lies half-crushed upon cloth. "For all faith, some things can’t be remade."
In an image, or the palm of a hand.