I’ll stowaway with Earth-bound cargo. Just my apothics and these slapdash Somatics I’ve stolen. By nightfall I’ll be home again in my tent under those bitter, acid skies. This time I’m going to fix it. I will seed a mighty forest, stronger than history… and by my will, use it to bring life. Titania,
the queen of the fairies.
Summary: The whole night is a mess for Sherlock and Molly -in more ways than one.
The dark bottle sits on the countertop mocking Molly; still sealed in
red, but frayed at the top, like a fruitless endeavour. Seconds pass –Molly
thoroughly convinced for many of them that she should enjoy the wine on her
own. But it has been 4 weeks since they’d bought the wine together for John’s
birthday and she isn’t caving now.
She hears a door close nearby and wonders if it’s him, moping about, or
a neighbour home from their workday. His coat and shoes are gone from one of
their various resting places and his laptop is shut: it’s the neighbour.
Her hand reaches towards her back pocket, but
stops short, suspending itself over the double stitch lining. She could call
John or Mary or Greg or god forbid Anderson, but she doesn’t see the point in
it anymore. The point is that he is there, wherever there is, and not here with
her on their anniversary (if she can even assign anniversaries to this
relationship they have).
Magdalena had never been kissed. Or rather, Magdalena had been kissed, but she had never been kissed in the way that she wanted to be. In her history of human desire, there were subtle black marks: hands had touched hands they should not have touched; mouths belonged to other mouths, and yet had found solace in flesh they did not care for.
Maggie had kissed her first boy at the age of eleven, a stranger in the market square with whom she had stolen a loaf of bread (and Maggie had felt dangerous and Maggie had felt free), her silken skirts bunched at the waist to keep them from the mud and the spoil, that her mother might not determine her sins when she returned home for tea. At fourteen, Maggie had kissed mages behind stairwells. At sixteen, Maggie may have done more than that—but at eighteen, there had only been him (Marcus) tangled in her muscles, like gravel in her mouth, infatuation knocked hard against an adolescent chest.
Ve, Ve, Verena, come quickly, they’ve brought the new recruits—and one of them is as fine as a Fade dream.
omg weird timing because I was just making a list of perfumes I want to buy… my all time favorites are tom ford neroli portofino (amazing staying power too, on my skin at least), Tokyo milk dead sexy, Elizabeth and James nirvana black, and Royal apothic hothouse peonie (this is the one I wear on a daily basis). I want to buy philosophy’s warm citrus and burberry classic (this is an old fav that I haven’t owned in years but I miss it)
If you haven’t checked out the wine tags that Clare Vivier made for us in collaboration with the wine Apothic Red, well, get to it! And, no, we didn’t mess up the pics on this post: These little wonders, which are meant be wrapped around the stem of a wine glass to avoid any mix-ups, can also be used as accessories—see the leather bracelets and hair band above. Basically, they’re as high-functioning as you are. Scoop them up now and gift them to your holiday-party hosts this month. —erica