In a flurry of coat and skirt she traipsed through the drafts of jealous, slinking air, shaking off their coils of cold bands on her legs, her cheeks. She waved it off as she sat at the shaking wooden table, long nails scraping against the cheap finish as she dropped the book and laptop onto the table, rocking in the rocking chair.
Her long fingers flicked open the lid, the light whirring on, bright and white and blinding, her fingers skittering over the letters, settling on the pad as she read, hungrily read, as the feral wolf lapped up its food. As she sat still, still sculpture, still boulder, her muscles lurched forward, her mind spinning around the story, one word after another chasing another, each other, the next, the last, the last before, the first, the beginning, the end, the one before, the one last before the first after the last. The room spun with dancing, angry spirits, coiling grins of demons and magic and pain, coiling magic of spirits of wind of people. She pushed her