wytchcroft

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Rosemary Lane

Ah to be broken into joy.

“Oh Rose,” Jack sighed with his head lolling on the lathed smoothness of my shoulder, “you have quite killed me.”

The little death, and my poor frock all torn and my petticoats disarrayed; by pleasure.

The rumpled sheets their every crease proclaiming; “what ho, mischief in the Master’s house!” And I myself so gleefully destroyed, reduced to spastic judders and twitches – peering through eyes sticky with fallen lashes, whose insides were ruptured and brazenly exposed, cogs and levers, my pretty hinges, the secret inner workings all revealed.

“And where is the lad eh? Where is the sailor boy?” My father swung his head from side to side as if to find the culprit, the enactor of his ruination would be crouching behind a cabinet, skulking shame-faced behind the marionette of the Great Ozu.

But Jack had gone at first light with a jaunty step, a tip of his cap and three shiny coins laid on the bed. Jack had gone and it was for Jill to go tumbling after...

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