What's interesting is how often themes emerge in the various snippets and storylets. We discovered that butterflies seem to mean death and danger to almost everyone, for example.
Sandy loam clung in the cleats of her hard rubber soles as she limped onto the wooden causeway. Good earth that road ran through; the river must flood out across the cornfields--at her back--in the spring. The low retaining wall beneath the palace on the island told her as much. She left little packed divots of that earth behind as she walked forward, the boards springy under her step, all her attention focused on the sway of the causeway, the scent of the breeze off the land behind her, the blue of the river on either side.
Not on the square whitewashed towers of the palace on the island. Not on the fairytale pewter gleam of its graceful domes, clad in beaten silver. Not on its proud spires and banners, not the low dark archway set askew of the road that led her inside.
She'd have all the time in the world to get used to those.
Shake my head and fairytale retellings fall out, apparently.
There's someone in the house.
In the upstairs window, behind a graceful arch of palmate maple leaves translucent with sunshine. Behind the storm window and the white rolled shade, framed in shake shingles. There's someone in the house, hand pressed flat to the glass, mouth open in fear or wonder or enticement. I can see him. Just barely. He's almost transparent. Almost like the glass.
And he's guarded very well by the calm, friendly, amiable killer on the ground.