NOT A RETURN. PROBABLY. POSSIBLY. NOT YET.

Not a WIP. Just some words that came along while Luscious was sleeping. I still don’t know if I can be bothered climbing onto the carousel again. No promises.

 

Antimony Lavage was quiet, and pale, and very well brought up.

She knew how to be polite, and respectful, and share, and care, and always, always be a perfect young lady around visitors. She knew how to wash her face, and brush her teeth, and tie her long, white hair in her prettiest black ribbon, and dress herself in her best black crinoline and black satin dress and black gloves and black bonnet. She knew how to make polite chitchat, and be seen and not heard, and amuse, and smile, and converse, and perform, and obey. She knew how to observe, and record, and dream, and make solemn promises, and in all things forever work to overcome the very real disadvantage of being no more or less than a six year old girl.

So when she determined to commit murder, Antimony Lavage knew exactly why, and how, and to what end.

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