#crowntipped

        “I cannot let you stay,” she says, “If you do not join our work. The girls will see it, and question. And I cannot be questioned, Rita.” And she cannot be suspected of this... This dalliance, either. All the women here have no knowledge of her predilections. She must keep it that way, else lose their trust, and she must stamp out any notion that she plays favorites amongst them, that she would keep Rita here like a housepet, and never send her out into the world to further their cause. She strains to hide it, but cannot fully disguise the edge of pleading in her voice: “Do you understand me?”

   “ I need eight crowns --- ‘nd for you to take me to gors velen . they have new beetles in the market ! for my beetle jars . ” jack does rita the liberty of closing the book --- promptly deciding that their lesson had concluded , a cheeky smile plastered on his grimy face . “ I promise that tomorrow I will learn how to read if you take me today . ‘nd if you don’t I'll just ask another nicer sorceress . ”

       “Is there anyone you want to invite to Passover?” It’s next week. Jane can’t say she’s excited about having people in the house. "I’m going to order the food. And I have to buy wine. And matzo.” She rubs her forehead, looking down at her to-do list, with ‘find the Seder plate’ already checked off, but not much else. “And candied fruit. For me to eat when I go hide.” The current plan is to wait until after at least three of the customary cups of wine have been drunk, halfway through the Seder, and then make some excuse no one will listen to, and then vanish. “I could buy extra if you wanted to hide with me.” Would the party really miss both the hostesses? No, right?

yoooo this too!!

shoutout to my top 3 biggest fans     @orthorres​     @crimscnmalice     @crowntipped

[txt: Glin] ok I’m just at the shop on the way home what flavour tuna you want?

       “Oh,” Mary says, and looks into her slipper, staring blankly at the small, crumpled shape inside, the little body of a mouse. “Well. That’s... Oh, dear.” She puts the slipper back down and rubs her forehead. Isn’t it good she didn’t just jam her foot in, as she might have on any other evening? “It’s very thoughtful of you,” she says to the simply enormous white cat occupying the chair by the fire, “but you know, I don’t feel very hungry for meat, these days. Did you know the Romans ate mice? Dormice. I don’t believe those live in the States.” What on earth should she do with it? She doesn’t want to just throw it out, leave it somewhere to fester. “Roasted dormouse. Oh dear,” she repeats. “Are you going to eat this?”

    “And what, pray tell, brings Your Benevolence into my unworthy presence?”