Imago Ch1: The Mad King (Patreon)

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There’s no rain in the Fae Market, no sky for the rain to even fall from - but there are storms.   Sometimes they creep upon us in small insidious ways. A prickle at the nape, a shift in the air, a friend’s smile slightly adrift. Other times they crash down in a deluge - an explosion of violence, a tower’s collapse.

The only consistency is that they are inevitable.  They cannot be stopped.  They can be weathered, or fled, and nothing else.

All those who dwell in the in-between know this lesson and heed it well.

From the writing desk of Alastor O’Reilly, 1987

It’s the night’s dying hours, and the Fae Market’s nightlife fades along with it.   Constellations of bioluminescent mushrooms that dot the cavern’s sky begin their inevitable rest. In a few hours aether will course through the walls of the King’s domain nearly as bright as the noonday sun,  renewing its foundation and making the otherwise nowhere space as whole and real as any other threshold.

But the night hasn’t given up its claim.
Not just yet.

The streets are deserted. The Glade stands nearly empty, save for a few lingering customers. Beads of water condense along the brass work and fog rolls lazily around the stage. Everything is quiet and subdued, winding down.

Until the scowling leannan sidhe kicks open the front doors.

“Clear out, sugar lumps!” She barks. Behind her, Ian holds the shivering nymph bundled against his chest. Her right wing twitches, blood coursing from a gaping hole torn through the centre.

"Neith, go talk with Trystan.” Ian rasps.  “Ask him for... somethin’ to clean the wound.”  Neith shoots him a salute, vaulting over the bannister.  The girl in Ian's arms groans and hunches tighter, her uninjured wing draping over her like a blanket. Ian frowns. “…maybe we shoulda gone to hospital after all.”

Astraea jogs alongside, shakes her head.  "No, Ian, I can heal her. But we'll need to stitch it closed first, we can't just leave it open like that.”

“Stitch it closed?” Ian gapes. “Us!?”

Astraea bites her lower lip. “Neith can do it.  But we have to act fast, or she’ll lose the-”

"Who’s kicking in doors?!"

Ian and Astraea jump at the hoarse bellow from the lower floor. Hedrick, the Glade’s proprietor, is already storming up the steps toward them, scowling and waving all four of his arms. “I'm ‘avin Trystan take it out of yer pay, human! What's all..." The goblin’s expression falters as he spots Astraea. "...what's..." Hedrick's eyes catch the broken figure in Ian's arms. He sucks in a sharp breath.

L lifts her head, cheeks stained with tears. "...Hedrick… I…"

"Get her inside." Hedrick croaks, his voice suddenly tight with worry. "Out of the cold. Madeline! Madeline, clean cloth!"

"There." Astraea says, lifting her hands from L’s wing. The golden glow suffusing the room fades, draining the colour in her face along with it.  She’s spent, pale and feverish. Her garments are stained with blood.

But she still looks better than her patient.

Except for the moment Neith began her needlework, L had remained silent throughout the process. She’s silent still, lying limp on her bed. Her face is streaked with sweat, and her eyes are wide and staring. A faint light plays through the veins of her wings.

"She's stable.” Astraea says, smiling worriedly.  Behind her, Ian and Neith pack away bloodied rags and empty pink-tinged buckets of water.

Ian hurries over, kneeling down by L's bed. "Ey, mate, how you feelin'? Is there anything else we can do?"

What is there to say? L can barely keep her thoughts straight. They whirl away from her like moths. Her eyes slide down to her hands, skating over the still-fresh inscription on her wrist. Remembering the blood. Remembering the bod-

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Neith watching her.  The mercenary smiles. It's a sharp, knowing expression.

"No." L whispers, pulling her arm to her chest to hide the mark.  She tries to flex her injured wing, drawing in a shuddering breath as it twinges. It feels numb where the hole had been, but she can still feel the outline of the wound. "...no. Thanks. I just need… sleep.  I’m so tired..."

Ian nods, helping Astraea to her feet. "Do you want one of us to stay? Or..." Ian looks guiltily to the corner, where the salt had been. “...maybe you need space…?”

"I'll be alright." L murmurs, struggling to pull the blanket up a little higher. Without a word, Ian takes it and pulls it the rest of the way. L touches his hand gratefully. "What about you?  Maybe ask Trystan for a drink?"

“Good idea, mate.” Ian nods. Behind him, Neith holds open the trapdoor to help Astraea down the ladder. He crosses the room, waiting on them.  “We'll be right below, yeah?"

"I'll call if I need anything.”  L says.  Ian smiles over at her, then flips the light.

“Ian…?"

He glances back.  Her antennae are curled, her expression one of quiet desperation.  "...thanks… for bringing me back."

He stops, looks at her.  Meets her eyes

“I’m just glad you’re still here.”

Then disappears down the hatch.

In the darkness of the room, she feels her world expand outward.  Even now, she knows she isn’t alone.  Whether that should frighten her or comfort her, she still isn’t sure.   L closes her eyes, letting herself drift into the empty spaces of her mind.   There will be time for nightmares later.  For now she is attended only by the darkness, and the soft clatter of  the building’s attendant crabs…

…and the glittering pair of eyes watching from the skylight.

"So who’s talkin" Hedrick growls, rattling the four glasses on the table. He jabs one of his hands up towards the rafters.  "That's the Glade's star performer up there. Each one of you know the trouble I've gone to acquire and polish her, out of pocket more'n I care to think.”

He glowers at each of them in turn;  Ian, Astraea, Neith. They’re seated near the bar, close enough for the Glade’s bartender nymph Trystan to listen in. Hedrick flashes a fang.

“So explain to me why you three come chargin’ in wiff ‘er lookin’ half-dragged through a grate! The FAHK happened?!"

“It’s-”  Ian stammers.
“We-” Astraea stumbles.

They look at each other.

"We aren’t entirely sure.” Astraea starts, uneasily.  “We just know the King’s human ally tried to… keep her.”

“… fahkin Harcourt?!”  Hedrick's eyes bulge “HE did that?"

"Should have seen what she did to him." Neith interjects smoothly. “Impressive.  A bit messy, but considering what he was in the middle of -”

"Yer taking the piss." Hedrick's voice drips sour suspicion. "Moth girl wouldn't hurt a fly.  Think I don’t know what ya are, Unseelie?  You’re jes pinnin’ your dirty work on ‘er."

"Believe me." Neith smiles, showing all her teeth. "I'd love to claim that sort of breathtaking brutality, but this one was all lolly." She takes a pull from her drink.

“You’re tellin’ me the girl who goes all pink faced o’er a lil attention from Cadogan an’ hand feeds the fahking vermin is a killer?!” Hedrick scoffs. Neith just shrugs.

Ian holds his glass between his hands, drumming out a nervous rhythm. “Hedrick, she's not lying.”

Hedrick looks from Neith to Ian, flabbergasted, then sits down hard. He runs one of his four hands through his shock of hair, puffing out his cheeks to blow out a long whistle.  “Well. Fuck me.”

“Yeah it’s a pill innit.”  Ian says, eyes tight.  “An’ that’s not the only part that don’ add.  Wasn’t L under the King’s protection?  That’s why she became her retainer in the first place!  Fuck was she in all this??”

“Tha’s RIGHT!!”  Hedrick slaps a hand on the table. “Where was the sodding King?   Not nothin’ ‘appens in this bleedin market she don’t know about!  She should get her fluffy arse ‘ere an’ explain why-”

"Hedrick." A voice trickles down the staircase, soft and sharp. There's something insistent about it, as if the speaker is perfectly prepared to keep calling until they receive an answer. It’s accompanied by a quiet scratching sound. "Hedrick. Your wish is granted. Open the door, please."

All the colour drains from Hedrick’s face. "Mads. Get the door."  He swallows. The brownie nods, and hurries off.  The four sit in silence, listening to her footsteps up the stairwell to the entry. The click of a lock. The creak of a hinge. The door swinging open.

On the step sits a lean siamese, bolt upright, the tip of her tail twitching as she regards Madeline with solid black eyes. For a moment, the brownie is entirely unable to move.

"Thank you, Madeline." The King of the Cats, cait sidhe and ruler of the Marker, murmurs. The darkness seeps out of her eyes, returning them to a clear, icy blue. She sweeps inside, her tail brushing against Madeline's leg, and half-disappears into the fog of the Glade.  "Your graciousness is noted."

There's a scuffling noise from behind the bar. A long-haired tabby springs up, winding its way between the taps and flicking at Trystan's nose with its tail. A deep grey slinks onto the edge of the fountain. Two identical calicoes clamber onto barstools and a black shorthair with snowy white paws positions itself on the bottom stair.  Cat after cat emerges from the nooks and crannies, filling the room and blocking the exits.

“You wished to speak with Us.”  Comes the King’s voice, seemingly from everywhere.

Hedrick swallows and gets to his feet. "Now look, Yer Majesty, I meant no disrespect. But I have a right to be angry! The girl - "

" - is Ours." The King’s voice drops further, and the mist parts before the table to reveal her standing before them. In one quick motion the King leaps onto the table, stretches, and scratches deep gouges into the wood with her claws.  "She made a bargain with Us. She was placed here, by Us. We acknowledge your investment, Hedrick, and We recognize that circumstances did not allow courtesies We would have wished to observe, but the fact remains that the nymph was at Our disposal."

The King pads her way into the exact centre, her pupils widening, and fixes Astraea with her signature black eyed stare. "With the intent, may We add, of punishing you."

L needs rest. She’s so tired.  She could have sworn she’d already drifted off, but something’s brought her back.  A weight like a sack of potatoes is resting on her chest, rumbling, lightly biting at her hand. She opens one eye.

A single ember eye stares back.

"Hey, Neith II." L forces a crooked smile, shifting in the covers. She reaches up and caresses the wormlike creature, who pushes into her hand before beginning to lightly bite at each of her fingers. L giggles, “Hungry?”

The alp luachra chirps and slides off of her, dropping to the floor below and excitedly circling.

"Oh, gosh, you ARE hungry.  did...anyone remember to feed you?”  The Alp Luachra stares at her uncomprehending.  L sighs.  “Of course they didn’t… I didn’t tell anyone to. Poor thing, I'm sorry.  I should have checked before..."

She goes quiet.

Before what?  Before going on her date?  Before being assaulted and bound and everything else?   How could she have planned for that?  WHO would have planned for that?

L lifts her left arm, staring at the swooping lines marking the inside of her wrist. Letters, even if she can't truly read them. Words that she just knows, as if someone whispers them gently in her ear.

Daphne, Kept of Spencer.
The name she rejected, and the man she killed.

L forces herself to sit up, ignoring the twinge from her wound. Stretching her wing, she examines the injury. Ian's cleaned away the blood, and Astraea's magic has knitted the tissue, but the pattern of her scales which once was smooth is now an irregular line, scarred where the bullet tore through her.

Testing her feet against the floor, she grimaces and stands up. The room wavers, but only for a moment. The floorboards are cold to the touch. L presses a palm against the wall to steady herself.  Just ahead, Neith II nudges eagerly at the edges of the trapdoor.

"No, hey now." She chides, placing her hands disapprovingly on her hips until the alp-luachra stops. "You’re not following me down to the kitchen. It’s not safe. Don’t worry, I’ll get you something."

Carefully sinking to her knees, she takes hold of the hatch, intending to open it.

L stops. She can feel vibrations. Placing her hand on the floorboards, she cautiously unfurls her antennae. No, not vibrations… voices. Some kind of argument. Her stomach drops.

That has to be about her, right?

L glances at the anxious alp-luachra, now coiling and uncoiling around her hairbrush. "S-sorry." She apologises. "I just want to know what's going on before I walk into it. That's all."

With a grunt of effort, she lifts the trapdoor slightly, letting light spill in like a welcome mat. L eases her head next to the crack in the floor, straining her ears and her antennae alike.

She can immediately hear Astraea’s voice below.

Loud, clear…

…and angry.

"Then you should have sold ME to him." Astraea’s eyes burn bright, meeting the King’s gaze.

"Of course you think this way, Lady Astraea." The King remarks, her back lifting into a tight arch. "You spurn Our order.  Disdain Our law.  So let Us make Ourselves perfectly clear.  We must balance the Market's legitimate grievance against you with the regrettable protection you enjoy.”

Astraea’s fists tighten into the table. Strands of blackened ivy begin to spiral from the surface.  “Do not speak to me of protections. If I have so much power at my disposal, then surely you can honour THIS command. You want to take a life? Take mine.” She tightens her fists and thorns spike out of the black vines. “You had no right to take L’s."

“NO right?”  All around the room, cats lower their ears or raise their hackles.  The King’s eyes narrow and  darken as she hisses.

“L placed herself into Our care and under Our protection. She came to Us that she might evade you. This arrangement was her idea and most amusing to Us, but unfortunately, We have other obligations. Other balancing points that must be considered. We have every right. ”

Astraea falls silent, her breath ragged.  After a moment, she sits, and the vines crumble away to dust.

"Now hold on a bloody minute." Ian says, standing to take her place. "The deal was that she work here, at the Glade. In sight, but untouchable, yeah? Only now the deal changes for her outta nowhere, so forgive us if we aren't interested in yer ‘obligations’."

"He has a point." Trystan chimes in, setting out a bowl of cream for the nearest cat. It taps the bowl a few times, nudging it near the edge...then hunkers down and begins to drink.  "In giving her over to Mr. Harcourt, you placed yourself once again in debt to Hedrick. I can't imagine Cadogan would be thrilled, either. And as the one she sold her name to, that loses value if she's Kept by another.

He smiles wryly. "Not that I would ever hold that against you, your Majesty."

"None of you rival Our claim on her." The King snaps. "And rest assured, We intended to compensate Hedrick for the inconvenience. Do you doubt Our word, Hedrick?"

"...no. Of course not." Hedrick mumbles, rubbing the back of his head. A scrawny kitten scrabbles up into his lap and begins to purr, kneading his knees. He scratches at its ears halfheartedly. "But...your Majesty, yer shoulda seen her when they brought her in..."

"We are aware of Harcourt's excesses." The King wipes at her whiskers. "We are aware of the excesses of many of Our subjects. Some remain useful nonetheless - so long as they serve the Market’s balance.”

“Harcourt kept the peace between our Market and the human authorities. He kept eyes from looking too closely and redirected unwanted interests. We had an outstanding debt with him and he requested the nymph as lasting compensation. We weighed the usefulness of the nymph and found she better served the Market as payment to Harcourt, and now We come to discover he is dead! And with that death will come questions. Changes. Runaway costs, unknown entities, even greater risks than before. All of this thanks to one feckless, inane little nymph.”

“So tell Us…” Her claws unsheathe. “How are We to balance this?"

L's stomach twists as she leans closer to the hatch, listening.  She hadn’t considered what Spencer’s death would mean for the Market, she’d had enough to do  trying to escape. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried to get him to listen. How could-

Something hits the ground behind her - a soft, heavy impact. She leaps, her wings snapping open painfully, letting the trapdoor fall shut.

"You stupid girl." The King says. Standing a short distance away, bathed in neon light, is the largest cat L has ever seen. She looks more like a lynx than a stray. The cat advances, her pupils darkening. L scrambles backward and breaks eye contact, careful to not be snared in the King’s gaze.  "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I've done you a favour! Spencer was mad - "

“AND WHAT OF IT?” The King snarls. “YOU’RE mad, WE are mad! We do not care if Spencer was mad. Spencer was useful. Our relationship with him kept Us hidden, where We could prosper. It kept us safe.”

L glances wildly in any direction except the King, looking for a way to escape. The hatch to her friends below isn’t far off, while the trapdoor to the roof above is across the room.  She circles closer to the hatch. The King watches, her pupils pulsing.

“And now you leave the inquisitive a corpse and a trail of blood, right to Our doorstep.  How ever shall We repay your favour?”

L leaps for the door, but the King is faster. She darts between L and her exit, claws scraping at the boards. “You spoiled little gnat. Would it have been so terrible to be doted on by a besotted socialite?”

L skitters backwards under the clothesline divider and into the shadows. “He wanted a slave!”

“And?” The King muses, advancing after her. “You make it sound so dramatic. Was escaping worth that blood We can smell on your hands?"

"Y̶es!”

The King growls and pounces. L leaps, flapping frantically. She has just enough lift to propel herself into the rafters, clinging on for dear life as her wing gives out.

̶“̵Y̷OU BETRAYED ME!" She yells, outrage welling up inside her.

"DO YOU EVER STOP TALKING?!" Something blurs on the floor, and all at once, the King is in the rafters with her. L bangs her elbow as she lurches away, kicking, but the great cat is already tearing into her back. She lets go with a yell of pain, trying to grapple with the King as they tumble to the floor in a tangle of flaring wings and clumps of fur. L gasps as the impact knocks the wind out of her, wrenching the thrashing cait sidhe back to arm’s length.  When she blinks the tears from her eyes…

The King's staring her in the face, her pupils expanding to fill the world. L feels all her muscles freeze, her body going rigid.  With a quick wriggle, the King drops loose from her nerveless hands.

"In chess, the pawn does not demand the King explain why they are sacrificed.” The cat says, coldly, her tail lashing back and forth. “You who read our stories and tell our tales should know better than anyone what deals with the fae entail. You gave yourself over to Us, retainer. Or have you forgotten? You promised to serve. Promised to obey our whims. And now? Now, you will keep your word.”

L tries to open her mouth, but finds her jaw locked tight. Helpless, frustrated tears trickle down her cheeks. She can’t even blink them away.  “Hrghm?! Hngggm!!”

“Silence.” The King says, extending a claw and pressing it against the side of L’s face.  It punctures the delicate skin near her ear, tracing slowly down to just beneath her chin.

L had never doubted the King was capable of killing her, but she had never thought she would actually go through with it. The threat had always seemed like a distantly-dangled punishment, something like being told off by a parent. But the warm blood dripping down the side of her face makes it too immediate to distance herself from. Even in her enforced silence, she can feel the instinctual prey drive to escape. She’s painfully aware of how tight each of the tendons in her neck have stretched, how easy it would be for that claw to snap them one by one.

The King blinks slowly. “There it is. That’s the look we like to see.”  She says, a soft rumble behind her words. “We will n- ROWWWRGH..!”

A flash of orange, and suddenly the King's thrashing. Neith II’s latched on to the end of her tail. The paralysis vanishes.

And in that moment, L shrieks.

Her voice rattles the room, sharp and wild. Thin streams of dust fall from the rafters. The corner of the vanity mirror cracks, spiderwebbing across the glass. Overhead, the skylight splinters and rattles with the exertion. L’s eyes glow in the darkened room, a rich and vibrant yellow in a sea of black.

L’s voice gives out. The sound fades. She blinks, touching her throat. Neith II’s lying on the floor, dazed and bruised. The King’s already groaning and stirring, her whiskers twitching.

L moves first. She snatches up the little alp-luachra and scrabbles lizard-like for the exit above. She hits the trapdoor with her good shoulder and bursts through, half-falling half-tumbling across the roof, shielding Neith II in her arms.

A moment later, hooked claws gouge through the door, rending it to splinters.  L doesn’t stay to watch. She scrambles through the rooftop storage tanks, slipping among the glass and brickwork. Her movement is more muscle memory than intentional. Her wings thrash, pain shooting up her back, but she’s going faster than she thought she could.. Neith II tucks into her dress and clings to her, shivering.

Behind her, the King pulls herself up through the debris, all corded muscle and frothing jaws.

"We’ll enjoy severing your vertebrae!  The spray of your blood on Our Claws, picking your sinews out of our teeth."  The King’s voice is close, but hard to position. L squeezes past the last copper strut to the far side of the tanks, and drops to the scaffolding below.

There’s a flash of motion above her, and a horrible wrenching sound - claws scoring through metal. Tanks pop and hiss, an acrid scent as the pressurised contents spray down upon her. She turns and darts along the pipework, expecting to feel claws at any moment. The ladder to the second tier of the roof is slick under her hands. She scrambles up and turns, peering back to where the tanks are.  They continue to drain and hiss, the area thick in a lingering greenish cloud.

There’s no sign of the King.

L holds her breath.  She can see the broken trapdoor, with a faint light shining up from below. It’s  growing brighter by the second.

Which means -
The back of her neck prickles, she hesitates -
Then darts in the opposite direction, toward the edge of the rooftop.

The Market spreads out below her, glittering like jewels in murky water, and for just a moment she lets herself take it in. It’s just as it was the first time she’d seen it, wonder and terror all wrapped up together. The breeze lifts and tosses her hair, and several stories below she can see the cobblestone alley, a few alp-luachra digging through the trash.

She holds Neith II close to her, tucked under her right rib, and releases a small choked sob.

“Nowhere left to go, retainer.”

“I’m not your retainer.” L says bitterly.  “You lost that right when you sold me to Spencer.  Remember?”

Silence.  And then.
“...We suppose you are correct.”

Slowly, deliberately, L turns and sees just what she thought she would.  The King seated in the middle of the rooftop, staring with jet black eyes directly at her. Once more, her joints lock and her muscles freeze.

The King tilts her head to the side.

“Giving up the chase? We must admit a certain curiosity. We half feared you might leap to your death.” She yawns, half-apologetically.  “Perhaps We should have waited until you were more recovered.”

The King sighs and saunters languidly towards her. "Oh well. We suppose We should respect the old adage... 'best not to play with your food.'”

"BACK AWAY FROM HER!" Ian barks. He’s on the rooftop a short distance behind the King, hefting a tire iron, and supporting Astraea next to him. Her hand is steadily levelled at the King, even as the light around her pulses and wavers like a dying lantern. Slowly, it darkens to a burning crimson.

"Do this and you will have more than just the human courts to answer to." She says, biting off the words. The King’s gaze doesn’t shift, but L can see her hackles rise as she stiffens. Slowly, the darkness eases out of her eyes.

“She’s…right,” L works her jaw, fighting around the remnants of the spell to speak. Her fear’s slipping away as well. There’s no room for anything but her anger. “You already have one court at your doorstep. Why not try a war on two fronts. Or hell, let’s get Cadogan in the mix.”

The King stares hard into her, her claws digging into the roof. “You would leave Us unsatisfied again, retainer.”

“I thought we agreed…I’m not your retainer.” L’s voice cracks bitterly.

The King blinks very slowly, her pupils growing and shrinking in a furious rhythm.  “We see. Then We have a counter offer.”

L furrows her brow. “... what could - ”

“Swear to Us you will pay this debt. Someday. Somehow.”

L is silent, for what is probably too long.“Fine.”

The King growls, low in her throat. "...swear it. Swear you’ll pay this debt."

L coughs. "I swear. I'll pay it. I'll find a way."

The King glowers, considering. Then she rasps "Ä̸́͝R̶͒ͅD̶̐͠E̸̍̚Ã̸͘T̷́̃" The mark on L’s arm flares red, as though it's just touched iron. then it fades to a dim glow.

"May this burn into you until you have repaid Us." The King says, breaking her gaze. L winces, suddenly released, and clutches at her arm. It doesn't hurt, but it’s hot to the touch.

"For the next forty days, you will remain here at the Glade. That will give Us time to contend with the immediate crises. After that, We can discuss how you might make this right.” The King’s ears pin back.  “Fail to do this, and We will see that that mark burns you from the inside out.”

She sits bolt upright, turning her head askance to Ian and Astraea “You two. Ensure that she stays out of trouble. As you are so…attentive to her, We believe this should pose little problem.”

Astraea nods grimly, and Ian mutters something inaudible. The King’s tail lashes, but she nods.  “We will make Our displeasure known if you fail to do so."  Then she slips back down the ladder and into the shadows.

The tire iron clatters to the ground and Ian hurries over to L, grabbing her into a rough hug.  "Fahkin ‘ell mate." He laughs nervously.

Astraea walks up to them, lightly touching the slash across L’s face. "We didn't know she was up here until we heard you scream.  We thought she was just downstairs telling us off. Are you alright?”

"No." L says, and tears well in her eyes. The anger evaporates just as quickly as it appeared. She’s trembling, collapsing. Ian catches her before she can fall, holding her carefully, as if she might break in two.

L takes a deep breath and wobbles back to her feet, the light of the King’s curse glowing from beneath her hand. "I think...I can make it back inside without anyone having to save me.  B-but just in case-”

Ian nods and forces a chuckle. "Yeah mate, be on the safe side.  We’re here.  We’re here the rest of the night.  We aren’t leaving your side.”

He glances behind him, looking up at the torn metal tank. The last of the gas has just whispered away into the dark, leaving nothing but a faint bitter odour to show it was ever there at all.

“... and things’ll be better in the morning.”


continue reading ->

Out of the frying pan, into the fire.   At least the fire isn't made of iron?

Thanks for reading chapter 1 of Imago!   L has come a long way in her journey, but her biggest challenges still lay ahead.   Be sure to check in Friday March 1st at 12p EST for Imago Ch2:  Waking Nightmares to see what dangers still lurk in the shadows for our little moth

Leave a comment with a suggestion for something you'd like to see drawn from this chapter, and I just might draw it!

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