Did my mother know, when she married him? Perhaps. She was not like us. I have lain at her feet as a wolf while my father paced the room, growling and whimpering his dissatisfaction with his life. My mother knitted. If I was feeling playful, I would bat the balls of wool; bud-green, surf-green, nettle-green. If she could have knitted us jackets of stinging magic to keep us human, I think she would have done it – kept herself mute and blistered to save us.
2727/90 000 – DiS
5/24? – hob