ABRAMS, Inc.

The Welsh say, “She is casting rain,” not “it is raining,” and in Pwyll’s day men still knew why. Rain and sun, crops and the wombs of beasts and women, all were ruled by that old, mysterious Goddess from whose own womb all things had come in the beginning. The wild places were Hers, and the wild things were Her children.

The glory of show business is that it gives the people what they want. The glory of art is that it gives us what we never knew we wanted.

Muhm… muh…’ She could only manage a croak. ‘I… I don’t…’ Triss trailed off helplessly. She didn’t know what she didn’t, but she was frightened by how much she didn’t

She was surrounded by love on all sides, and she had never felt so utterly alone. She could tell nobody what had just happened. Indeed, the longer she stayed silent, the harder it was to speak. And what could she have said anyway?

. She could not bear making her father look older.

‘Triss, there’s no need to be scared.’ He pulled her over to sit in his lap and hugged her. His jacket was full of serious father-smells, such as pipe tobacco, hair cream, and a warm leathery scent that seemed to be his very own. It made her feel a bit safer. ‘You’ll be fine at the doctor’s. You will be my brave girl, and I will be very proud of you, as I always am. I know you’re frightened and confused, but nothing bad is going to happen. You trust me, don’t you?’

Triss felt her mother’s hand stroking her head, and with a rush of relief she felt a sense of her own power return to her. They were worried about her, but they were still on her side. They would still do anything they could to stop her lip trembling. The feeling of safety was fleeting, however. Pen would not be satisfied with her most recent assault. Pen would be planning something new, and Triss felt her own rage and resources rallying in preparation for battle

‘The funny thing is, sometimes memories can be like that. If something happens that scares us, or that we don’t want to remember, we swallow it down, just like that marble.’ He was talking slowly and carefully now. ‘We can’t see the memory any more, but there it is deep inside us, creating problems.

Houses breathe in their sleep as people do, and the only noises in the silence were such soft ticks and settling creaks.

I cannot stop myself, however. Writing these letters is all that I have, even though now it is just a make-believe game I play to make the cold less bitter

I am a shattered thing now, I know it. I can feel my soul sticking out at twisted angles like a broken limb. All I can hope for is numbness and an end.

Forgive me,

Sebastian