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337 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 9, 2021
'Mark my words, Miren, the O'Malleys are on the rise.'
'One for the house, one for the Church and one for the sea.'
'Hard to know, too, how many burn who are genuinely those who can hex, and how many are merely inconvenient women.'
'Other families might have stories of curses, cold lads and white ladies, but we have old gods, merfolk and monsters.'
'Why do they all think me harmless? He might be a good judge of men, but he's an appalling one of women.'
'Perhaps I'm free and do not know it. How will I ever know?'
Far away and just as long ago there was a rock in a river where rusalky maidens sat and sang. Their songs seemed beautiful, if one did not listen to the words. If one did then it was likely one would follow the lovely tune off the cliff to either break upon the rock below or drown beside it, much to the maidens' delight. They look, in the daylight, like glorious girls with long locks in every shade, glowing skins and eyes, red lips and white teeth, fingers to catch the eye. Luminescent toes dangle in the floating waters, long fingers comb shining hair. By day, they are wondrous to behold.
But when the sun sets, or when they doze on the rock, they forget themselves and can be seen in their true form, for they did not begin as sprites, but rather as human girls. Murdered maids, those dead by their own hands in grief and despair, those whose own acts haunted them beyond their passing, lose the pleasing form they had when they lived. The rot of life and death can be seen, the skin has a greenish tint, the eyes sunken, the hair straw-like, the marks of fingers and fists visible on throat and face. In winter times, too, they are in a between state, for the light is never quite right to weave their illusions, so they hide then, but for the sunniest of days.