She supposed they would just... keep holding hands, then. (It did not make much of a seancé with only two people at a graveside, but Phyri adjusted herself to the sensation by supposing there was something almost fitting about it.) “She’s turning waxy in places now, I imagine,” she remarked, about Ophelia. Not so cold anymore; the walls of the coffin would be a crumbling fortress against the slow decay of skeletonisation, but the soft tissue of her body would perhaps be changing already, seeping away from her – or turning a firm but soft candle-waxy white in places where the fat started seeping to the outside.
Mr. Devine had given them each a token of Ophelia’s hair, of course, but surely he could have given them each a hand to keep. Apparently she could not stop thinking about hands, now, because before she could stop herself she had started reciting a a particular verse of Keats to November.
Mr. Devine had given them each a token of Ophelia’s hair, of course, but surely he could have given them each a hand to keep. Apparently she could not stop thinking about hands, now, because before she could stop herself she had started reciting a a particular verse of Keats to November.
a sublime set by Lady! <3