Summer in Orcus

by T. Kingfisher

“Saint Sunday’s bones!” cried the woman, pulling her hand back, and then she said a great many other things, some of which were extremely rude. Summer paid careful attention to these and committed many of them to memory.

“Besides, it’s not strangers you need to worry about—it’s the ones you know that get you.”

“Does it bite?” asked Summer warily. “Of course it bites. It’s a weasel. They don’t kill their prey with pretty words and poisoned sweetmeats.”

You want to watch out for people who don’t wear their skin correctly.”

“All weasels talk,” said the weasel. “Most humans are just bad at listening.”

“That’s as may be,”

No

No desire to be disaccommodating, but a fellow can’t go handing his unborn children out to anyone that asks, now can he?”

“Humans hoard up their fears as if the world might run out.”