His mother said witches lived there. We’re lucky, she’d say. A warm home to keep us safe. Nowadays his front door stays shut. He talks to no-one. But on mornings like this, when the mist rises, he imagines those witches sitting by their fires. Wonders just what luck really means.
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Sitting up here, alone. Feeling like it’s the top of the world, or the top of something. No one can touch you here, she thinks. No one even knows. And god-like, Eloise watches - knitting tight-stitched curses against them. Against all of them. And opens the window just enough to spit.
I like these sort of games.
Thanks, Sarah, for letting me play.
D
Goddammit, the clumps of moss are slippery. She skips across the slate tiles, weaving in and out of those chimney pots which belong to the doubters. Into the others, she sprinkles fairy dust and listens for the childish squeals of delight as the black glittery specks flutter onto the hearths.
On days like this, when the fog crept in, slow enough to be of notice, it was hard to neglect that they were still connected by the elements that surrounded them. The city was a small one. And they were both sticky with it.
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