Sleepy Fox Hollow nothing

River had the wherewithal not to look surprised by the question. She looked him up and down, studying the grey of his coat and the warm, melting amber of his perturbed stare. Clear in her memory despite the long-passing of time, she remembered the pregnant cyclops, and she wondered.

No, she answered, as much as the ghost of her former self would have loved to mess with him. But if I had been Mahler’s girlfriend, my mother probably would have torn off his dick as a dowry. A faint smirk softened one corner of her mouth. Sorry, no sordid history here. He’s just my uncle.