Otter Creek Why should you believe in magic,

viorel leant back, suspecting some poor attempt at a joke and finding only unveiled sincerity. it should not have been that peculiar – wandering in the snow was the occupation of travelers or fools.

they smiled, a brief thing, there one moment and gone the next. they knew how it must look on their elongated face; they had been told of how unpleasant it was before. “no,” they said, wryly, “i would think not.”

something about the way she looked at them – a sort of speculatory cruelty – was familiar. the silver disc of her eye gleamed; the attention made the back of their neck prickle.

“do i.” viorel looked over her face, the scarring that lingered where it could not be hidden. an old wound. they held her gaze, let their tongue roll over the words. “the doing of my mother, i suspect. which of yours was the dog?”