Thursday, March 31st, 2016

2016/18: Cry Murder! in a Small Voice -- Greer Gilman

The player’s boy drew breath. I split. A lightning at his crown, an ecstasy. The spirit bound within him—light in body—woke. No other saw the courtier in green. But in his sight, the room was filled with hawthorn: with its writhenness, its shade, and yes, its vixenish rank scent. And in the wick of it, his master was, and it was of him: still renewing as a cold green fire. [loc. 1301]
maybe slightly spoilery review? )

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