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Kami stopped typing and glared at the screen. She wasn’t sure about the tone of her article. A serious journalist should probably not make so many jokes, but whenever Kami sat down to the computer it was as if the jokes were already there, hiding behind the keys, waiting to spring out at her.
“Put the jerk in the south wing, you won’t see him for weeks at a time. Or lock him in the attic. The law will not be on your side, but literary precedent will.”
Kami almost fell over the husk of a tree trunk, swathed now with the red ribbons of love-lies-bleeding.
The inside of the Water Rising was dim and brown, with stools that seemed to have old men growing from them like mushrooms from the hollows of trees.
