Herbalists' Cache mintgrass

and when he made that final twirl, her bladed hand reached forward -

parting gift. a last squeeze of supple flesh before the menuet's end, the cello's string still a-quiver.
 
her laugh gave chase to his ears.

run, run prince mendian! run to your petits dieux!

she ascended a tree, to perch atop a branch, more gargoyle than queen.

and know zhere are two gods - zhe Sun, un we!

and her laugh became a scream.