I’ve been making edits on my 7k+ retelling of Fitcher’s Bird. It’s nice to look at it and be reminded that yes, I can write, and quite well at that, a fact of which I need periodic reminders. Snippet:
Three days after the hunt Fitcher gave youngest sister a pair of earrings fashioned from the claws of a fox. He had had them set in gold and hung below beads of amber. She wore them to a dance the next day and smiled as the matrons frowned and muttered, and the maidens watched her with wide, spooked eyes.
The claws proved sharp enough, still, to draw blood: that night when she took off her mantel they caught and tore, tracing a line of dark droplets on the skin below her ear. “I will have them blunted,” Fitcher said, catching her chin and tilting her head gently to the side to see the damage.
“Don’t,” youngest sister replied, and when he looked away from the blood to meet her eyes, she said, “What good is a claw that cannot injure?”
Fitcher’s smile was thin. He brushed his thumb across the wound and licked off the blood, and when she kissed him, the taste of it was metallic on her tongue.