...she sits alone at her table, shuffling her tarot deck compulsively.
Erin Morgenstern, from 'The Night Circus'
[ annoyed Kami ] " you're getting blood on the my carpet. "
❝ I thought a little red might add to the … charm. ❞ her voice was smooth ᵘⁿᵗᵒᵘᶜʰᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ʳᵉᵐᵒʳˢᵉ but amusement flickered in her eyes as they finally met Kami’s.
❝ but if it bothers you that much … ❞ emilia tilted her head, studying kami. there was something about her — something in the way she stood, unimpressed and unshaken, that made the witch want to push just a little further. ❝ I suppose I could make it up to you. any preference? wine? a séance? a less ... dramatic entrance next time? ❞ a smirk ghosted across her lips, equal parts amusement and challenge.
❝ or ... ❞ her voice dipped lower, softer, like the start of a secret. ❝ you could just tell me what the spirits are saying about me. I'm sure they're pʎᴉuƃ to weigh in. ❞
— Nietzsche
Mary’s sorrowful heart in Naples, Italy.
The Times, Shreveport, Louisiana, November 30, 1913
“Both the bitter and the sweet, both a honey-tongued blessing and a curse.”
— Miklós Radnóti, from All That Still Matters At All: Poems; “A Gentle Breeze,”
“[…] dark garden, dark garden, with your olives and your wine, your medlars and mulberries and many almond trees, your steep terraces ledged high up above the sea, I am leaving you, slinking out.”
— D. H. Lawrence, Sea and Sardinia
❛ Looks like we're stuck together. ❜
with a subtle ᵇᵃʳᵉˡʸ ⁿᵒᵗᶦᶜᵉᵃᵇˡᵉ tilt of her head, the witch’s gaze grew sharp and focused as she studied the smug looking woman before her.
❝ stuck, huh? ❞
her voice was calm, but there was an edge of intrigue buried beneath the coolness. emilia had seen enough of the world to recognize that nothing was ever truly random. not with people who carried themselves the way her self proclaimed ally did.
❝ you wanted this. ❞ Emilia’s eyes lingered on the stranger, assessing, as if trying to unravel a hidden layer beneath her exterior before she continued. ❝ did you not? ❞ her posture remained controlled, wary, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper — something like … ᴵᴺᵀᴱᴿᴱˢᵀ.
apron on. a swirl of olive oil. the aroma of garlic. candlelit evening in. plump, red tomatoes. sea salt pasta water on boil. fusilli in. basil from the plant. jazz tunes on. creating in the kitchen is such a dream.
♱⠀⠀ ⠀⠀The wood creaked softly as she leaned back, the corners of the 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔣𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩 pressing into her spine like a reminder : THIS WAS NOT HER PLACE. And yet⠀⠀ ⠀⠀…
Emilia sat with her legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded like a good girl, eyes fixed on the worn velvet of the partition. The hush inside the booth was thick, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty — it was watching. She exhaled slowly. Her palms were cold. In silence, she made the 𝔖𝔦𝔤𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℭ𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰. Forehead. Chest. Left shoulder. Right. Her fingers lingered at her heart for a moment before falling away. ❝ Bless me, Father … ❞ she started, and stopped. Her throat tightened. Her voice, when it came again, was low. Steady. But too quiet for comfort. ❝ Bless me, Father, for I have SINNED. ❞ She didn’t say how long it had been since her last confession. She doubted the walls cared. She doubted HE did, either — whoever he was. Whatever this was. Her fingers tightened in her lap. ❝ I wanted something, ❞ she said, her voice barely above a breath. ❝ I touched it. I took it. ❞ A pause. ❝ I wanted to be ƃoop. I did. ❞ She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and her voice cracked — not from emotion, not quite. From restraint. ❝ But when he looked at me, ❞ she said, ❝ I didn’t want to be 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔶. I wanted to ruin him. I wanted to see what would happen if I let go. ❞ Another pause, and she almost laughed, but didn’t. ❝ I did, ❞ she whispered. ❝ I let go. ❞ Her hands unclasped. Rested open now in her lap, like offerings. ❝ I thought it would feel like power. But it just felt like fire. And I think I’d do it again. ❞ She went still. Perfectly still. Her breath shallow. Her eyes fixed on the shadowed screen before her, heart thudding painfully in the hush between them. ❝ Does that make me EVIL? ❞ she asked, not to the priest — not really. ❝ Or just honest? ❞ No voice answered. Just the creaking of wood, the faint flicker of a candle somewhere far from where she sat. She swallowed, throat dry. ❝ I didn’t come here to be forgiven, ❞ she said finally. ❝ I just needed to say it out loud. ❞ The witch shifted forward, like she meant to leave — then hesitated. And softer, like a secret she hadn’t meant to speak: ❝ I’m not sure there’s anything left in me that wants to be forgiven. ❞ Then she stood. The door creaked open behind her. And the moment she stepped out into the empty church, she didn’t look back.