There is Time, and then there is Timeliness. And always there is the Story, with its Unfolding, and Chapters, and Small Deaths, and Small Beginnings. There is time, in its usual pace and pattern. Then there is Time. Weaving and wobbly. Spiral and labyrinthine. Permeable and translucent, really. Always dripping with anomalies and aberrations, always stained with magic, barely hidden yet rarely noticed. The question of When is at the root of all tales. Even the ones that only w

They were everything she was taught to want and to fear.

So I hung around closer to the surface after I felt her fall. Damn. You should see the bruises but she brushed them off and smiled that sweet (foolish) smile. I wanted to shake her until she snaps out of it. But I have to admit, I got curious. She can be sensible (well, one of us has to be, haha) and I know she does not pursue lightly. She does not love lightly. Damn, I thought. Here we go again. We were both doing fine with the fantasy stuff. She'll feed us all these books,