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[abernathywrites]

sample 001.

margaery tyrell [au verse]

“Do you intend to find a suitable wife for young Joseph in the near future?”

The words pulled Margaery from the comfortable tranquility she had been resting in beside her bedmate, and with a soft inhale her eyes flicked open; and her ice-blue irises roved over to appraise the man. She did not make a habit of taking lovers, both due to her awareness of maintaining a public image and her tendency to be engulfed in other realms of responsibility, but a considerable length of time had elapsed since the last time she had laid down with another; and she had missed the warmth and comfort of another’s affections. Auster Beesbury was the heir to his noble house, which had long-since been loyal Hightower vassals and subsequently held their fealty to House Tyrell. In the redistribution of lands after the continent split into revitalized kingdoms, the Tyrell’s sworn houses–Tarly, Florent, Redwyne, Fossoway, and many more–had followed the former Wardens of the South as they fell into allegiance with the Baratheons. That said, the Tyrell rose had long been fostered in the Reach and had, as their words said, grown strong. Loyalty ran deep, and true southerners looked to the guidance of the Queen of Thorns, to the King’s Hand Mace Tyrell, and to his four children; rather than the reigning King Renly who had spent the formative years of his life in the Stormlands. Beesbury had come on a good will mission sent by his Lord father Warryn, who had agreed to contribute heartily to the beautification of the children’s orphanage that resided in the village nearby his home of Honeyholt. Margaery had found his mission auspicious and his son’s looks handsome, and so she had offered him thehospitality of lodgings before he began his trip anew. Perhaps sensing the Queen’s meaning, had accepted enthusiastically,and the two had rendezvoused that evening.

His inquisitive behavior as they laid together took her by surprise, though she did not display it openly and maintained a cool demeanor. Instead, she turned onto her side and propped her body up on an elbow, to better look down her nose at the man. Her lips quirked in a ghost of a smile, and she responded: …do I intend to? Certainly.” Auster smiled up at Margaery, and an amused huff left him. “You understood my meaning, your grace. Are you searchingpresently?” “I do believe Joseph’s future bears no direct implications on the orphanage you came to speak to me about. Or did you have other intentions in coming to Highgarden, Lord Auster?” The smile on Margaery’s face was charming, but her words were purposeful. All business where her son was concerned became her business by proxy–and she did not like to leave room for vagueness. Beesbury’s heir wasted no time in revealing his true purposes. “My brother has a daughter the right age for betrothal. Young and pretty, with a sharp wit–much like yourself, your grace. She is indisputably trueborn, and has our look–his wife is of a secondary branch of House Bulwer, so she is a well-bred southerner through and through.”

Margaery did not speak immediately, and instead cast a withering look in his direction. Rising to a seated position, she reached for an intricately detailed wrap and slid it round her nude form. After a pregnant pause, she spoke in a detached tone: “perhaps you had better prepare your procession, Lord Auster. The trip can be long, and the Florents do not often offer the same hospitality found in Highgarden.” She did not turn to pay him any mind, but she could hear him shifting in the bed and nearing her until his presence was felt at her back. Pulling aside her thick waves of hair, he pressed a kiss to her now-clothed shoulder. With his lips near her ear, he spoke, “…at least do me the honor of rejecting me directly, your grace.” Prompted, Margaery spoke bluntly. “My son will be King, and inherit both the Reach and the Rock. He will have at his feet the wealth of Westeros, and command armies that have numbers greater than other lands could dream of. The worth of his hand is greater than the worth of a noble southern daughter, and his marriage should reflect that.” She did not make note of the fact that Lady Alysanne Bulwer, the current Lady of Blackcrown, had been her lady’s maid when they were young. Though she had a certain fondness for the family and her friend who ruled the House, accepting a secondary branch of Bulwer would have been a demotion when they were simply House Tyrell of the Reach. Auster’s voice remained close to her ear, and his tone carried an air of humor. “Ah, yes–but perhaps you forget, it is sometimes more favorable to make matches in your own lands, rather than forging far-off alliances with others who do not know your way of life. Would that you could do both, that would be truly favorable…but you have only one child with which to barter. It is an unlucky thing, given the vastness of your lands and your youth. Surely, with a mother such as Lady Alerie, who reared four strong children, you cannot be content with only one.” Margaery was silent for a long moment as she processed the clear mockery handed to her by Lord Auster. He had touched on that which was her one true embarrassment–that she had bore only one child in the fourteen years that had elapsed since her marriage to Renly. It soured her mood, and she pulled away from Auster Beesbury and stood. He was not so handsome to her, anymore–merely a pale and naked man whose build told her he had begun indulging in the honey his family was known for. “Pass along my wholesome gratitude to your father, and please tell Lord Warryn that I will be along to see to the progression of the orphanage, and that Prince Joseph will attend with me. Perhaps you could prepare jars of honey–to be distributed to the smallfolk when I arrive.” She turned towards the door that led to an adjoining room in her chambers where she intended to have a thorough bath, but paused. “Do you have any children of your own, Lord Auster?” She recalled a wedding–to a Leygood or an Ashford, she could not recall–that House Tyrell had attended, though it was difficult to remember which Beesbury it had been for. Behind her, Auster fumbled with his own clothing, and stilled to answer her question. “My Lady wife is currently with child, your grace.” She turned to regard him, and he straightened his posture with pride. “The Maester says that from the look of the way she carries, it is a boy.” “And I will pray that it is,” Margaery replied kindly. “Raise him strong.” “House Beesbury raises only strong men, your grace,” he asserted. At that, Margaery smiled. “I would expect nothing less. As I said, I will pray that your wife births a strong, healthy boy–and when he is of age, I will personally oversee that the honor of committing him to Joseph’s kingsguard is done. You have my word.” Auster paled at the thinly-veiled threat made on his unborn heir, and though his mouth hung open no words sprang forth. All things considered, Margaery preferred it that way–she had enjoyed his company so much more when he had been quiet. “Travel well, Lord Auster,” the Queen chirped, and disappeared into the adjoining room. Days after the dismissal of Auster Beesbury, Margaery was still troubled by his taunts. There was nothing she was so keenly aware of as her lack of many children, and if ever she were to forget it, her grandmother would sternly remind her. Olenna Tyrell remained at her station in Highgarden, watchful as a hawk and cunning as a fox. Though Mace was the clear choice for the council given his station as Tyrell patriarch, Margaery had always thought that they would have been better off sending the Queen of Thorns–whose political know-how rivaled all others in the realm with Tywin Lannister disposed of. But even so, she was just as pleased to have her grandmother around, and continued to spend long days in the gardens with the old woman, who continued to mold her granddaughter in her likeness. Olenna, though endeared to her grandson Loras and cordial to the King, was not shy to speak on her disappointment in the state of Baratheon heirs…or Tyrell heirs, in regards to Willas and Garlan. She grew flustered over their futures, and the dynasty that she saw being crippled by her grandchildren and their lack of offspring. With Auster Beesbury’s words already weighing down in her mind, she had broken fast with her grandmother the next day–only to have the elderly woman herself call into question Margaery’s age and how her body was ‘falling to waste.’ With fresh cuts to a wound fourteen years in the making, the Queen found herself storming the chambers where Renly laid his head–only to find Loras there, alone. “Loras,” she greeted mild-mannerly. “Where is he?” “Small council meeting.” He replied, to Margaery’s confusion. “Have you been recently removed from your position as Lord Commander? Should you not be there?” This seemed to cause Loras some irritation, and he glanced in his younger sister’s direction. “A very small council meeting, sister.” From there, Margaery could infer the situation–their father Mace sometimes asked after audiences with the King, to discuss…well, so far as Margaery could tell, it was nearly nothing at all. It simply made the well-known lord oaf feel powerful as Hand. With only her sibling around, the Queen felt comfortable relaxing her practiced guard and released a quiet sigh. Approaching Loras, Margaery rested a hand on his arm and squeezed–a friendly gesture, and a call for help. “Well, perhaps that is for the best–I’m better served speaking with you.” She paused, briefly. “…I need you to speak with him. To convince him to share my bed.” Loras’ lips parted as his brow furrowed, and he made to respond to Margaery’s request; but she had already begun to speak once more. “I can’t say I care how it has to be done–whether you prepare him and then leave, or if he would prefer that you stay…we could even work together, I suppose, if it must be done…” She trailed off at the concept, which felt oddly like emulating the infamous Lannister twins. “Regardless of the method, you understand. I need another child, Loras–at least one more. A girl, ideally. Not just for me, but for our House and for our future. You mustn’t be selfish–and neither can he.” It was a long while before Loras spoke again, and when he did his response was slow, and careful. After Margaery had become pregnant with Joseph, she had turned her head to Renly entirely and ceased her unwanted advances–she loved her brother wholly, and understood his feelings for the King. So long as her son grew healthy and strong, she was happy to give Renly to Loras for his keeping. The young Queen could understand how he could feel, after fourteen years without worry; to be told that she needed his lover once again. “You have your Joseph,” he answered tersely. “And Willas will play into your hand as you direct him, and marry the Stark girl if the King in the North allows it. Garlan follows your will as well, and has his hold in House Fossoway. What more could you need? And why now?” “You are thinking with the head of someone only concerned with their House,” Margaery responded quickly. “We have akingdom to attend to–a very large and expansive one, need I remind you. Sansa will make a powerful addition to our family, but we cannot expect that she will be so willing to perform wifely duties. Joffrey was so cruel to her, and I do not think she will recuperate until she has had time to live in the comfort and warmth of the south, and truly grow to care for Willas. I cannot rely on her children as allies for Joseph, because I cannot rely on her bearing them. I do not like that sort ofuncertainty, Loras. But if I have more children, and if I raise them to fulfill the roles their King brother will need, we can ensure the foundation of a dynasty that will carry us through the wars and skirmishes to come. Think of it: a younger brother, to grow up and become a War Lord and to marry into a strong southern house…and a beautiful sister, raised as our princess and destined to become another land’s Queen, and forge alliances that will protect us–to protect Joseph–in the face of harm.” She could think of the uses more of her strong, beautiful children could fulfill: a husband or wife for House Florent, to ensure their sometimes finicky loyalty, and a castellan to rule and watch over the Rock while Joseph continued rule in The Reach…theirs could be a powerful, indomitable royal family if Renly would do his part. She could sense Loras’ constitution waning, but could see the dejected slump in his posture as well. Moving her hand from his arm, she rested it on his cheek and offered him a sympathetic expression. “Joseph was all I ever wanted, Loras. He is good and kind, and will make for a wonderful King–just like his father. But unfortunately, he is not all the kingdom needs. We cannot afford to think only in the present…we must look towards the future. Speak to Renly, please. He will listen to you. He must.” Loras stared down at his sister, and breathed a sigh–his proverbial white flag. “As you say,” he responded with a nod. “I will speak to him, though I can not immediately promise the outcome you seek.” He tried a smile, but the expression was slightly wounded. “Perhaps Grandmother should consider passing on her thorny crown–you are beginning to soundremarkably like her.”

At this, Margaery smiled–wide and honest, and with a hint of pride. As her hand slid downwards, she cupped the back of his neck and pulled him down, where she planted a delicate kiss on his cheek. “That is the finest compliment I’ve ever been paid.”

[fornext1119]

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Making samples with the kids #summerartcamp #7to10yearolds #zimmerliartmuseum #printmaking #mysample

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[abernathywrites]

sample 006.

margaery tyrell [au verse]

“You can think of it like a game.” “A game? The Harvest Moon celebration?” The fourteen year old echoed, her brows raised delicately as she looked over at her Grandmother. Margaery bit into a wedge of fireplum, and hummed as Olenna nodded in response. “Will there be a prize, if I win? And how do I win?” “Your prize will be the knowledge that you’ve shown me you’re learning something,” the old woman replied bluntly as she cast a suspicious glare at the jug of rosewater that had been set out for the Tyrell matriarch and her granddaughter, “all you need do is pick a boy you’d like to dance with, and have a dance with him.” “Oh,” Margaery had responded simply, and chewed thoughtfully. She doubted Olenna cared much what level of dancing skill her granddaughter had attained–Margaery was graceful ineverything she did–and so she surmised quickly that it was the fact that she’d be picking the boy. “Just one, the whole evening long? And I should let the rest of the evening go on as usual?” Dancing with the boys her lord father pushed her in the direction of, that was–or dancing with the boys who were bold enough to come forward and ask. “Just one,” Olenna confirmed with a nod. “We’ll see how well you have learned, little rose.” Margaery smiled at the idea of a challenge, and nodded her head. “I’ll find out who we are expecting to arrive,” the young highborn commented, “besides the usual host of Reachmen.” “Do not dismiss the usual host of Reachmen,” Olenna tutted as she pointed one of her gaunt and thin fingers at Margaery. “There is sound, promised loyalty in that usual host. Outside of that, there are snake pits pretending to be bloody godswoods.”

Margaery knew very well why her Grandmother said what she did. If Margaery was to be a proper protégé–and she did want to be, desperately–she would have to soothe the ambition her father had passed onto her for favor of using her wits. The two traits could worktogether, certainly, but there were times when over-ambition could cloud good judgement. Mace promised his little rose so often that she would be Queen one day, and had done so for as long as the maiden could remember. That promise had become like a little voice in her head, teasing and coaxing her with a want that had taken root deep inside of her: Queen Margaery, Queen Margaery, Queen Margaery, Queen Margaery, Queen Margaery… Olenna wanted to teach her that it was not always the obvious choice that proved wisest. It was not always the Prince and heir apparent–though it would be so sweet if it were–nor was it always the boldest or handsomest one in the room that one could benefit from. It was a difficult lesson to learn for a girl raised in the heart of Westerosi courtly manner, who had been surrounded her whole life long by gallant knights and chivalrous lords. But it was a necessary lesson, and one she would need to learn soon and learn well. For all Mace’s promises of Queen Margaery, Olenna did wield a firm hand in the affairs of House Tyrell, and she was decidedly, unabashedly against undue involvement with the Lannisters; even if that meant searching for marriages outside of the Targaryen dynasty. Margaery was wont to be in agreement with Olenna’s judgement, but she had difficulty ripping herself away fully from the fantasy of queenship. Still, for the purpose of showing the effort was being made, she intended to try. The night of the Harvest Moon celebration came, and throughout the early hours of it Margaery watched the room with a keen eye. Her observations did not betray her, and she remained lively and pleasant–but she watched all the same, watched and searched for the boy that’d cause for her to win the game. The celebration was a masquerade, but the costumes and masks did little to hide identities; most costumes were traditionally a dramatization of house sigils, and those who chose garbs that did not clearly dictate their origins affixed pins of bronze, silver and gold that clearly labeled them. The Tyrells as a whole occupied the high table, and so Margaery’s identity was clear at the outset, never-mind the green-and-gold wears that she’d chosen. Even so, when she did finally locate the boy who would champion her, it was neither the colors he wore nor the pins he attached that told her his identity, but the sheer size of him. The boy was large and round, and trying desperately to be neither as he struggled to hide from a group of highborn boys who continued to visit the table he sat at with plated desserts to offer him accompanied by taunting oinks. She’d watched the interaction, curious and pitying for a moment, before she’d risen up from the seat she’d occupied beside Olenna and walked purposefully towards the scene. At her back, Margaery could feel her Grandmother’s eyes burning holes into her back. It caused her to walk straighter. It did not leave a tingling of nerves in her chest, but rather a buzz of excitement in her gut. Margaery was confident in the choice she’d made, and eager to display the fruits of Olenna’s tutelage. She strode easily through the group of boys, and turned her gaze onto the heir to Horn Hill with a bright and friendly gaze. “My lord father says I am allowed to choose who I’d like next to dance with,” she lied easily, and pointedly ignored the boys that’d lingered by, “and I would like very much to dance with you, my lord, if it would please you.” Samwell Tarly was silent as he looked up at her, and Margaery thought that surely he assumed she had come over to taunt him too–but she remained steadfast in the smile she offered, and exuded a warm genuineness. It was Margaery’s greatest talent to make each person she spoke to feel as though they were the most interesting and therefore the most deserving of her undivided attention, and that talent was well-reflected as she paid heed to no one but him. After a moment, he relented with a mumbling “yes, my lady, it would,” and the two were off to the floor. For Margaery’s part, she did well to ignore entirely the fact that the hand that’d reached out to take her own shook whilst being warm and moist with nervousness, nor did she comment as he looked not at her but dutifully at his feet as they moved–a choice which caused him in his anxiousness to misstep and step on one of her own feet. She was proud of herself, truly, when she swallowed down any noise of pain.

“It’s because you’re so focused on your feet,” Margaery whispered to him, and a gentle laugh followed. It was not the harsh taunting snickers he’d been the victim of earlier, but a light and warm noise that encouraged him to laugh too. “Look at me,” she advised in a honey rich tone, and moved her hand from his shoulder to his chin in an effort to coax his gaze upwards. “I won’t bite.” When he did look back up, she smiled widely, and brought her hand back to his shoulder. “It’s not so hard, see? Keep on looking right at me. You’re doing wonderfully! You’re really a very graceful dancer, my lord.” When the dance came to a close, Margaery parted from a Samwell Tarly who seemed to stand a bit taller. “Thank you for the dance,” she chirped sweetly. “I would ask for another, but I think I should go back and see after Grandmother–check to see if she’s not fallen asleepin her chair.”

“Samwell Tarly,” Olenna greeted her with as Margaery rejoined her at the table–her tone seemed as though she’d been tasting the words, and found them too sour for her liking. But then again, Margaery found that her Grandmother took a similar tone with most things, and it did not inherently mean that she was displeased. Confident as ever, Margaery smiled and nodded as she took her seat beside the elder woman. “I do hope the poor fool did not crushyour foot, dear.” Olenna commented snidely. Never one for patience, she waved a hand that suggested Margaery ought to explain herself. “Go on, explain.”

“It was a kind thing to do,” Margaery replied with a sugary cadence as she picked up a goblet set before her. “You see there?” She pointed to the group of young boys who had been oinking at Samwell earlier, who now milled about the hall awkwardly, “they’ll leave him be, now–or maybe they’ll invite him along to spend the remainder of the evening with them, so they might learn what I said to him.” She laughed at that, and took a small drink of the hippocras. Olenna hummed at Margaery’s rationale. The legend of the graceful and kind Margaery Tyrell proven true, as all the lords and ladies in attendance could attest from her dance with the boy. Not yet satisfied, Olenna smirked at her granddaughter. “And the realreason why, now.”

“That is a real reason,” Margaery retorted as she settled the goblet back down before her, though a smile had begun to pull at the corners of her lips in a shape which matched her Grandmother’s. “But I did hear once, that Lady Melessa is very fond of her eldest boy. And I thought I should like to please her, and perhaps her lord father too.” Melessa was the eldest daughter to Alester Florent, who himself was amongst the guests that evening, and who Margaery hoped had been witness to the dance that’d occurred. “It would make me happy to know that both Lady Melessa and Lord Alester would have been able to see me help to put a stop to the shame those boys looked to do unto poor Samwell.” The gentlest of encouragements to the Florents that they ought to mind their place and mind their greater lords, as it was.

“And,” she began again, the smile on her face growing still, “I have heard father complain that Lord Randyll has been finding himself in skirmishes with the Dornish along the borders, and that he does not heed father’s word when asked to refrain from his more violent urges. I should think after this evening he’d be more interested in pleasing father, wouldn’t you, Grandmother?” Margaery knew very well that she would never find herself betrothed to Samwell Tarly without a serious crisis in her own family, but Lord Randyll did not know that. Olenna regarded Margaery for a moment, and then reached out to smooth down the younger girl’s curls. “Well done, my dear.” More than ten years had elapsed since she’d had that dance, and as Margaery sat in a well-loved veranda in the gardens amongst her colorfully-dressed retinue, her eyes twinkled with excitement. The girls had been chatting animatedly about the upcoming Harvest Moon celebration, and as the Tyrell lady looked between her cousins and lady’s maids, she smiled. “I have a game we all can play.”

[doodhvaledotcom]

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[abernathywrites]

sample 005.

daisy fay [au verse]

"Oh, no."

A soft and airy cry left a petite blonde in one exhale, though it was kept quiet—as if she had intended for it to be said in confidence, a worry kept solely between her heart and her mind. And as she crumpled into the seat of the taxi, it was almost believable that she didn’t want to draw attention to herself—which, of course, left the tall and slender brunette that sat only inches away feeling both miffed and amused simultaneously. This was her unlikely friend: her self-absorbed, self-pitying, lavish-living friend.

This was Daisy Fay.

Examining her nail beds with disinterest, Jordan’s eyes flickered from the chipped polish (and she chastised herself once more; do not have your nails done only to pick up a putter a moment later), to the face of her friend who was trying oh so hard to play the role of a lost girl who didn’t want attention (an attempt at which she was failing), and the glittering lights of the party that went on (loudly) just beyond the gates of the mansion they were now so precariously placed in front of. She thought she heard the droning on of the taxi driver for the two women to exit the vehicle, but she actively ignored it.

“What in the world is it, Daisy? You were so excited to come before.”

The blonde bit into the flesh of her lower lip, looking on at the guests as they zealously made their way into the party. This was what she wanted. This was what she had pined for. A party, but not just any party—a Gatsby party. The ones that were chatted about in all circles, in all social syndicates—the ones where mafioso and politicians and celebrities and civilians all gathered without invitation on the simple knowledge that a celebration—celebrating what, one would never know—beyond the wildest man’s imagination would be occurring. And who knew that one simple fact would bring it all crashing to the ground. ”I’m dressed horribly.” Daisy lamented after a moment, her voice thick with threatening tears. (Jordan couldn’t tell if they were feigned or otherwise.) “Are you out of your mind?” Her friend argued, a playful elbow jabbing her way. “You’re a vision, as always. In fact, I plan to swiftly abandon you the moment we walk through those doors, so that it’s less likely that you’ll show me up.”

A smile cracked onto the beautiful woman’s features, but she shook her head. “But isn’t it just depressing, Jordan? Everyone is dressed so colorfully. I haven’t seen a single person in black. They’ll think I’m a widow. And what widow would mourn at a party? Oh, it’ll be terribly confusing, and I’ll get those looks—those you-should-leave-you-don’t-belong glances and you know just how awful—…“ Jordan’s raised hand silenced Daisy, whose lips closed slowly and whose eyes drifted to follow the various guests running towards the party. Blues, pinks, greens, reds. "You’ll only stand out. Everyone will follow you with their eyes, the same question tugging at them—just who is that lady in black? And furthermore, Daisy; you should know better than to compare yourself to a widow. You’re scarcely in your twenties, and no widow would dare walk out in lipstick like yours, wearing a necklace strung with both pearls and diamonds. Stop being silly.”

And as always, a barrage of compliments was all it took to have Daisy once again all smiles, a sultry word of thanks tossed the driver’s way as Jordan callously tossed bills into the passenger seat of his car, an extra dollar falling with it—a dry "For your troubles" leaving the athlete’s lips.

The party was everything that Daisy could have imagined and more. The music of the band—though she swore there was more than one, playing the same songs to amplify the sounds—hummed in her chest, her heart positively vibrating with it’s electrifying sound. All over, the heat of excited bodies clung onto her, each face new and unique and so, so very interesting. The smell of alcohol and sweat and the sea filled her, lifted her, enriched her. She laughed and sang and danced and in those stolen moments was no longer Daisy Fay or the soon to be Misses Thomas Buchanan but simply a woman—no, a girl who could embrace the riches of life. Her disillusion, her anger, her doubt in happiness (both hers and that of the world) faded in the instant she became a guest to the lucrative Mister Gatsby.

And where that man was, she began to wonder as she sipped a glass of champagne delicately, her body draped carelessly over the cool stone of a balcony. The guests had taken over the mansion as well, and it wasn’t long before Daisy found herself in a gloriously beautiful room, spinning round and round to admire the artwork on the ceiling before claiming to need air. Jordan stood next to her, though a man several paces away and still inside the mansion’s walls continued to urge her back to dance.

“Imagine, that all this is real.” Daisy uttered after a moment, her warm chocolate eyes curiously looking after a green light in the distance, wondering what it could be. “We don’t have to imagine, Daisy—we’re living it!” Jordan retorted more loudly than usual (her usual demeanor following a few drinks), a laugh escaping her. Daisy simply hummed in response, her tongue darting out and drawing along her upper lip, tasting the champagne. “But isn’t it funny?” She finally spoke, not daring to look at the woman beside her. “That here we are, in a stranger’s home, drinking his liquor, dancing to his music, exploring his home, enjoying his company, and yet he’s…” Her free hand grasped out at the air, her soft hands finding nothing. “…Invisible.”

When her words received no answer, she tore her gaze away from the night to see Jordan scurrying out of the room with the same man, her uproarious laughter surrounding Daisy, acting as a remnant. She, too, exited the balcony, finding the air away from the guests suddenly chilly. The music still thrummed through the walls, and soon the blonde found herself swaying along slowly, her circles small and planned, her feet moving in precise, graceful motions. Her head tipped back, and cornsilk dripped from her scalp, her features serene for just a moment.

And then she laughed.

Though she could not understand why, for some reason if she had not laughed in that moment, Daisy was quite certain she would have cried.

[doodhvaledotcom]

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