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The woman is a cunning creature. Made in the likeness of her Mother, she is at once the creator and the destroyer. She is kind until she is cruel, meek until she is merciless.
Sometimes I wonder if my secrets are better swallowed than spoken. Perhaps my truths have done enough harm. Perhaps I should take my memories to the grave and let the dead judge my sins. —MIRIAM MOORE
into a wooden plaque on the right side of the wall: The forest is sentient in a way man is not. She sees with a thousand eyes and forgets nothing.
To be a woman is to be a sacrifice.
True evil, Immanuelle realized now, wore the skin of good men. It uttered prayers, not curses. It feigned mercy where there was only malice. It studied Scriptures only to spit out lies.
