Evensong

The Winter Queen of the Scarlet Mirror Freehold

[the-hedge-has-thorns]

A Prey's Dance

Mood Music

It began with the frenetic hum of heartbeats.

Not her own, but the audience’s. Dozens of them, pounding like wardrums in their chests.

The Hollowed Lyric, a ruined opera house, crouched in the Hedge like a predator’s mouth, full of broken arches for teeth and crumbling rafters for ribs. Thorned vines knotted through stone and wood, bristling with the reminder that the Hedge was just right there. A curtain of shadow hung heavy behind the stage, stitched with dangling bones that clicked softly in the candlelight.

From within that blackness, she emerged.

Bunnie Velvet stepped en pointe onto the warped wood, as the candles flickered, then steadied.

She was slight. Starved, almost, with the lithe, lean build of something built to run and run and never get caught. Limbs sharp with precision, but twitching with tension. Her skin gleamed, stretched too tight over muscle and bone. Her black tutu drifted around her knees like smoke, torn at the hem as if teeth had ripped the fabric.

Her eyes were glossy black voids. No whites. No humanity. Just glassy, endless dark. Nestled in her hair were two soft rabbit ears, coal-black, curled back tight against her skull.

The Autumn Court watched from the darkened audience. They were creatures of secrets and sacrifice, wearing plague masks and veils, foxed pages for skin and lanterns for eyes.

The violin keened from the pit, a low, scraping, feral screech. It sounded like something dying in the forest.

Bunnie dropped into a crouch at the center of the stage. One hand folded beneath her like a paw. Her spine curled. Her head twitched once. Then the first step - fast, too fast, a blur of motion. Her body arced, then twisted violently. A pirouette spun too far, too long. She snapped to a stop with such stillness it was wrong, her arms drawn in tightly like a snared animal.

She danced like prey who knew the predator was chasing them.

Every movement crackled with raw instinct, still graceful, but taut with terror. She leapt high into the air, but landed like a thing ready to bolt. She rolled her shoulders, her neck, as if shaking off a leash. Her mouth opened at times, gasping for breath, eyes darting to the corners of the theatre.

The violin shrieked as she spun, faster now, trailing sweat and tulle and something unseen... scent, maybe. The copper tang of fear.

She dropped again. Crawled. Legs folding beneath her, arms dragging across the floorboards as if she was hunted. Abruptly, she stopped.

Chest rising. Head low. Ears forward.

Something was watching.

From the back row, perhaps. Or from the rafters. Or just beyond the walls.

Bunnie turned slowly, deliberately, and began again, but this time it wasn’t a dance. It was a chase.

She lunged. Stumbled. Fled across the stage in a chaotic tangle of limbs and beauty and fear. The violin screamed.

A final leap! and she crashed to the floor like a broken doll, black hair splayed in a halo, tutu wilted, rabbit ears askew. One twitch. Then stillness.

Silence fell like a dangling noose.

The entire court was breathless. One masked figure had clawed deep gouges into the wood of the pew in front of them. Another wept quietly. Somewhere, something laughed.

She did not rise.

She unfolded.

Her limbs dragged her upright in slow, shuddering twitches. Her head turned to the audience. Her eyes gleamed, ears jolting.

And she bowed, like prey acknowledging the predator that never quite caught her.

Then she vanished, back into the curtain of shadow.

The candles extinguished themselves.

Because that night, it was not just a performance. It was a warning of the new season.

[the-hedge-has-thorns]

The Ending of the End (of Daisy Mae Nitti)

The flickering light of the movie screen reflected in my eyes as I sat in the dark theater, alone in a sea of strangers. I’d seen this film already. Twice, in fact, but it didn’t matter. The movie, the actresses, the music, they were my escape. It had become a ritual, these visits to the theater. The cloying scent of buttered popcorn, the sticky floors, the quiet murmur of people settling into their seats... it was the only place I felt like I could breathe anymore.

Robert and I hardly spoke at home. When we did, it was a cold, brittle exchange. He was hardly ever there anyway, staying late at work, disappearing for hours without explanation. When I asked, he sneered or made some cutting remark about my inability to give him what he wanted: a perfect home, a perfect wife.

I touched my swollen belly, the only part of me that still held hope, still held a future. But even that was fading, dissolving beneath the weight of everything else.

It felt like I was disappearing, piece by piece. The books I used to hide under the bed had been forgotten, tossed out by Robert. I gave up trying to learn, to understand the things that once filled me with excitement. It was easier to just let go. Robert didn’t want me to be more than what I was. A housewife, a shadow of the woman I used to be. And now, I wasn’t sure who I was at all.

That was when I met Marcus Sabel. He sat next to me during one of my many solo trips to the movies, his presence warm and unexpected in the coldness of my world. He introduced himself with a soft, knowing smile, his voice deep and soothing like a melody I hadn’t realized I needed. He didn’t ask about Robert, didn’t pry into the parts of my life that were crumbling. Instead, he saw me. The me that I had forgotten existed.

We talked for hours after that first movie, and then again after the next. Soon, our meetings became routine. He had an air about him that was magnetic, a certain elegance that seemed out of place in the world. Every time I was with him, the heaviness that had clung to me like a shroud lifted just a little, and I could breathe again.

It wasn’t long before I became emotionally entangled with him. He was everything Robert wasn’t. Attentive, kind, playful. And he listened, really listened when I spoke. I found myself sharing things with Marcus that I hadn’t spoken of in years.

I told him about my childhood, growing up in Chicago as the daughter of Frank Nitti, "The Enforcer." I told him how Al and Mae Capone had always been a presence, like some twisted version of an aunt and uncle. How, as a little girl, I never fully understood the gravity of my father's world: the violence, the power, the fear it inspired. To me, they were just family.

Mae used to dote on me, brushing my hair back with her soft hands and telling me stories. Al had a way of making me laugh, even when I sensed that something darker was happening around us. I was a child, but not blind to the realities of their lives.

Then there was Anna, my stepmother. She had married my father when I was still young, a cool, quiet woman who never quite seemed to know what to do with me. We coexisted more than we bonded. And Joseph, my adopted stepbrother. He was a few years older, and though we didn’t share blood, we shared the same house, the same strange upbringing. Joseph and I were close in a way that made me feel protected, like we were both navigating the same chaos.

Marcus never judged. He just listened, his dark eyes soft with understanding. And when he spoke, it was as though he was drawing me out of the past, pulling me back into something brighter, something safer.

Or so I thought.

I should have seen it sooner, the way Marcus seemed too perfect, too otherworldly. The way time slipped away when I was with him. I should have noticed how strange it was that I never really knew where he lived, or why he was always just… there, as if waiting for me.

One evening, after we had watched yet another film and shared another night of conversation, Marcus invited me somewhere new. “I want to show you something special,” he whispered, his voice carrying promise.

I followed him, trusting him implicitly, despite the warnings that had started to flicker in the back of my mind. We walked through a city I thought I knew, but it changed around me, becoming something more. More vibrant, more alive, more surreal. We passed through an archway I hadn’t noticed before, and suddenly, everything shimmered.

The world transformed into a dazzling party, one that seemed endless, filled with music and laughter and color. I had never seen anything like it. It was Arcadia, Marcus told me. He revealed his true nature then... his face shifting, his eyes glowing with an inhuman light. He wasn’t just a man. He was a Fae Keeper, The Host of Cobalt Souls, and I was his new guest.

In this place, every day was a wondrous celebration, and every night was filled with revelry. It was intoxicating, all of it. The endless joy, the intoxicating beauty of Arcadia. I was swept up in it, losing myself in the lights, the music, the adoration. The Host made me feel alive again, but it was a life fueled by something darker.

I became his revitalizing drink, the thing that kept the party going, night after night. He needed me to sustain the endless wonder, to give him and his court the energy to keep dancing, keep laughing, keep celebrating.

But there was a price. I realized too late that I wasn’t just a guest. I was trapped. Time moved differently in Arcadia, and my body… my body wasn’t my own anymore. The baby I had carried inside me was gone, lost somewhere in the madness of that place. I hadn’t even realized when it happened, or how long I had been there.

And back in the real world? Robert wasn’t mourning me. He wasn’t searching for me. He had a replacement. My Fetch, a hollow, empty version of me. She was perfect, the perfect housewife Robert had always wanted, and he was content with her.

I was forgotten.

And as the music swelled around me, I realized that in this endless party, I would never leave. I was The Host’s now, the drink that would keep him and his court alive forever.

But deep inside, where the music couldn’t reach, I was hollow too. I had lost everything... my child, my past, my future. And there was no escaping Arcadia.

Not anymore.

[the-hedge-has-thorns]

The Middle of the End

A Decade Ago: 1940s

The late afternoon sun streamed through the lace curtains, painting the parlor in soft, golden light. I sat with Ramona among the other women from the street, packing care boxes for the soldiers overseas. The room hummed with quiet chatter and the rustling of paper, a steady rhythm as we wrapped soap, socks, and letters into neat little bundles.

I tied a ribbon on the package in front of me, my fingers moving automatically, but my mind was wandering. Ramona, who had been sitting next to me all afternoon, was unusually quiet. She and I had been best friends since Robert and her husband, Henry, started working together. But today, her silence was unsettling.

Finally, she looked up, her eyes glimmering with something I couldn’t quite place. “Daisy,” she began softly, almost too quietly for me to hear over the murmurs around us. “I need to tell you something.”

I set down the package, turning to face her fully, my heart picking up speed. I could tell it was important, just by the way she was looking at me.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion before breaking into a wide smile.

For a second, I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. My heart swelled with joy for her, and I reached over, grabbing her hand tightly. “Ramona, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you.”

Her smile grew even wider, and I could see tears forming in her eyes. “Thank you, Daisy. We weren’t sure if it would happen with Henry being away so much… but it did.”

We embraced, and I held onto her longer than usual, feeling her excitement, her relief. But as I pulled back, I couldn’t stop the flicker of sadness that crept in. I pushed it down quickly, but it was still there, gnawing at me in the pit of my stomach. Robert and I had been married for two years now, and every month brought hope that was dashed again and again. It wasn’t something I talked about—not even to Ramona. But the ache was there, always there, reminding me of what I hadn’t been able to give Robert. Or myself.

Still, I forced myself to smile. “You’re going to be such a wonderful mother,” I told her, meaning every word, even if it hurt to say them.

Present Day: 1953

The city lights blinked on one by one as we stepped out of the theater, the cool evening air wrapping around us. Ramona, her daughter Emily, and I had just seen the latest Marilyn Monroe film How to Marry a Millionaire, and the girl was still gushing about her. She tried to mimic Marilyn’s famous walk, her small feet trying to master the sway, and Ramona and I laughed.

“That Marilyn,” Ramona said with a shake of her head, still chuckling. “She really is something.”

I smiled, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Emily - almost ten now - was a constant reminder of how much had changed over the years. She was everything Ramona had hoped for all those years ago when she first told me she was pregnant. And here I was, still without a child, still yearning for something I didn’t even know if I could have.

After we said our goodbyes, I lingered on the sidewalk for a moment, watching them walk away before turning toward the bookstore down the street. The warmth of the store welcomed me as I stepped inside, the smell of paper and ink filling the air. Peeking around to make sure no one was near, I ran my fingertips over the spines of the books as I read their sideways titles, searching. Passing by "The Microbe Hunters" by Paul de Kruif, "Gray’s Anatomy", and "The Nature of the Chemical Bond" by Linus Pauling because I had read them.

I hesitated for just a second before adding "The Cell: An Outline of General Biology" by E. B. Wilson, "General Chemistry" by Linus Pauling, and "The Human Body: Its Structure and Physiology" by Logan Clendening to my stack. I wasn’t supposed to be doing this - learning, studying - but I couldn’t help it. Knowledge had always called to me, even if it wasn’t proper for a housewife like me to pursue it.

At the counter, the young man behind the register gave me a friendly smile as he rang up my books. “Your husband must be a real scholar,” he remarked, glancing at the titles. “Is he in school to be a doctor?”

I smiled, something that barely touched my eyes. “Yes, something like that.”

I paid quickly, clutching the books to my chest as I stepped back into the evening chill. The streets were quiet, and I hurried home, my heels clicking against the pavement. I needed to be home before Robert. He wouldn’t like it if I wasn’t.

Once inside, I went straight to the bedroom, lifting the mattress just enough to slide the books underneath. They were my secret. I smoothed the bedspread and stood for a moment, listening to the quiet of the house before heading to the kitchen to start dinner.

I had just finished stirring the stew when I heard the front door open. My heart leaped into my throat as Robert stepped inside. I dried my hands on a towel and quickly greeted him with a drink and a kiss, hoping to ward off whatever mood he was in tonight.

He took the drink but didn’t say a word, brushing past me toward the bedroom. I busied myself with setting the table, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach.

Then I heard him call my name. “Daisy!”

I froze. I knew that tone. It was sharp, dangerous. I wiped my hands again and moved toward the sound of his voice, my pulse pounding in my ears.

He stood in the doorway, the books clutched in his hand, his face twisted in rage. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, shaking the books at me.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “I—I just wanted to learn—”

He cut me off, his voice venomous. “You’re too dumb to learn this crap! You’re worthless! Your only job is to keep this house in order and take care of me. Not waste time with this nonsense.”

Before I could say another word, he grabbed me by the hair, yanking my head back so hard I thought my neck might snap. Tears burned in my eyes as he leaned in, his breath hot against my face. “You’ll never be anything more than what I tell you to be. Understand?”

I nodded, my heart hammering in my chest, the pain from his grip spreading through my scalp. But it wasn’t enough. He let go, only to strike me across the face, sending me sprawling to the floor.

I lay there for a moment, my cheek burning, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue. I could hear his heavy breathing above me, feel the weight of his presence, but I couldn’t move. Not yet.

Finally, something inside me snapped. I scrambled to my feet, not bothering to look back as I ran out of the kitchen, out of the house, into the night.

A Week Later: 1953

I sat on the edge of the bed in my hotel room, staring down at the envelope in my hands. The doctor’s office had sent the results. I already knew what they would say, but I couldn’t bring myself to open it.

Finally, I tore it open, my hands trembling as I pulled out the paper. One word stood out, glaring at me from the page.

Pregnant.

I placed a hand over my stomach, the reality of it sinking in. A baby. I was going to have a baby.

For a moment, a flicker of joy broke through the haze. But then the weight of my past - of my childhood - settled over me like a heavy blanket. My mother had raised me alone for most of my life, and when she died, I was sent to my father and his new wife.

I couldn’t do that to my child. I couldn’t let them grow up like I had -lost and alone. As much as I despised Robert, as much as I wanted to run and never look back, I knew I had no choice.

I folded the paper carefully, pressing it to my chest. I would go back to him. I would endure it all - for the sake of my child.

Because no matter what, I couldn’t let my baby grow up the way I did.

[the-hedge-has-thorns]

Near the Beginning of the End

"I'm just sorry you had to find out this way." He speaks to me with an expression that is weary and appropriately apologetic. Like he had practiced it in the mirror night after night in preparation for the day it all came tumbling out.

Robert and I had been married for 9 years and he had just told me he had been cheating for the past 7. It was like he had dropped a bomb on our marriage, detonating wedding lace and diamonds into shrapnel that scored a direct hit.

I had suspected, but it wasn't until I had found the torn pantyhose stuffed under the seat in the car when I had gone out to clean it, that I knew for sure. It certainly wasn't mine - Robert had never been adventurous with me.

"You mean you're sorry I found out at all," I snapped, shoving the ruined hose at his chest. It knocked him back a step on our stoop, nearly down the steps.

He glanced around, his expression darkening as he looked back to me. "I didn't want to hurt you -"

"Hurt me?" I cut him off, the prickle of heat behind my eyes beginning to burn. I refused to cry though. To give him any of my tears. To let him tell me I was being hysterical when really, I was feeling downright murderous.

"No, I didn't. I made a mistake, Daisy. A big one." His words didn't line up with his demeanor. They didn't line up with his actions, but that one was a given. "Now let me in before the neighbors see or hear. They don't need to be a part of our little spat."

"Stay out there." I hissed. "Go sleep at her place since you like to go there so much." I slammed the door shut. Or…. tried. His fingers curled around the edge of it, forcing it open and me back. This time, I stumbled, nearly twisting my ankle because my heel wobbled.

He caught me before I fell, his fingertips digging into my arm with a possessive bite. "You deserve so much better…I'm so sorry Daisy." He pushed me to the couch and forced me to sit. "You deserve so much better."

I head his voice crack and I felt the hesitation in my chest. He knelt in front of me, his arms wrapping around my waist so he could press his head against my chest. "But I just can't let you go."

I shivered. Maybe he mistook it. His hands crept up my skirt, sliding past the hose and to the garters, unclipping them to trace the edge of my panties.

The urge to squeeze my knees shut was overwhelming, pressing in on his ribs as I grabbed at his hands. "I don't want you touching me. Not after all the women you've touched." The words came out like lava, hurled like boulders while my heart beat frantically in my chest.

Then there was heat flaring over my cheek, a sting of pain turning my vision blurry. My familiar living room with its floral curtains, the beige carpet, the ugly dark baseboard bubbled in and out of focus as I sucked in a sharp breath. The tears spilled despite myself, cold terror scraping at my ribs as I pushed myself up from having fallen onto my side. Hardly processing what had just happened.

Hard fingers in my jaw shoved me back down. "You're my wife. If I want to apologize this way, you'll take my apology, Daisy." Robert's voice had gone low, a serpentine hiss in my ear.

My mind was still scrambling and I didn't realize he'd dropped his slacks until he was pushing into me.

Never once I had ever thought this would be a situation I was in. Robert had always been the perfect gentleman. I always thought I'd have been stronger than what I was.

"You're so…" He was breathless. In. Out. In. Out. In and out. "You feel so good, Daisy."

I always thought I would have fought tooth and nail. Except I was frozen for the whole three minutes it took. And the five minutes after it took for him to fix himself, no remorse in his eyes.

I don't know how long I stayed on that couch, my skirts hiked up around my hips. It wasn't until I heard noise that I stirred. "Daisy! Where's dinner?"

I was to blame.

I let people take advantage of me.

I was in the wrong.

I was just something to be used, and he had reminded me.

[the-hedge-has-thorns]

Stars in the Night Sky

He reeked of gin and olives, and of another woman's perfume.

I was at the door with a dirty martini in hand, the purple dress he'd always favored, and dinner on the table. The model wife.

I kissed his cheek and guided him to the dinner table where he could drink his martini while I served his food.

He loosened his tie, returned the kiss to my cheek, and I felt his lips burn with the memory of another woman. I served. His food. As his audience. As a soundtrack to a one-sided conversation.

"Daisy?" he called, snapping his fingers.

I blinked, taking in his cleaned plate and empty glass. He appeared to be waiting for something, but I had lost track of the conversation. It wasn't hard to do, he rarely spoke of anything that held real importance. I sipped the one glass of wine he allowed me with dinner to gather my thoughts. "Whatever you think is best, dear."

He seemed pleased with my response. Not unusual - he preferred when I deferred to him rather than voice any of my thoughts. I stood and picked up a dish to offer it in his direction. "Seconds, dear?"

*****

I sat on the edge of the bed, still in my dress and heels, wearing the diamond necklace he'd gifted me for our 10th anniversary. It matched my engagement ring, and the diamond earrings for our 5th anniversary. I'd always liked pearls better, but he liked the way the lights struck the diamonds when we were out.

The noise of him in the bathroom drifted away as I looked out our window, to the neighbor. With just the right angle I could peer down into a corner of their living room. They were dancing. More in love than I had ever felt.

"Daisy."

I pulled away from the fantasy.

His mouth crushed over my own before I could speak, crushing the words from my mouth. His tongue forced in, scraping out the syllables. "I missed you. I need this." Minty words breathed into my lungs.

Of course he did. I was a creature born to satiate.

A mother's need to love something in a marriage falling apart. A father's need to love something unstained. A husband's need for the perfect image, and a complacent thing to fuck.

His fingers circled my nipple through the dress, hardening at the touch. He liked me in purple. I preferred red. Purple was a compromise for a good mood.

"Turn around," he commanded.

I stood and turned, catching a glimpse of his nakedness. At the start, I had been attracted to him. Someone that was outside of the world my family was entangled with. I'd never have to worry about scrubbing blood out of his clothes, or mending bullet holes. Or be worried the next phone call was going to be from prison collect.

Over the years, as he collected lipstick colors and new perfumes, I'd grown repulsed. Sickened at the grip of his fingers on my hips, and the slap of his skin on mine. It'd turned my stomach.

Now... well, it didn't matter anymore. I was perfect. Untouchable. Unattainable. The stars in the night sky.

"Can you shut the lights off?" The darkness helped. Made things softer, and easier to imagine things were different.

He didn't move. He shoved my legs apart and I stumbled as he hiked up my skirt to feel my wetness. "Always ready for me," he murmured against the back of my neck.

My thoughts slipped, clattered down the rungs of sin until it was another man's hands drawing down the zipper of my dress so it puddled around my heels. Another man's hands unhooking my garters and cupping my breasts as he bent me over the bed. Another man filling me.

I was grateful I'd snuck several pulls from the bottle of wine when he'd left me to clean the kitchen. The soft, low buzz made the imagining easier. I'd long since stopped trying to guide for any of my own pleasure, but I dreamed.

The other man didn't have a face, or a name. But that was fine. Less disappointment when even the dreams inevitably began to fade and lost their luster.

He moaned, his pace picking up.

I couldn't feel him inside me though.

Tonight, I didn't feel anything at all.

He finished quickly. I realized too little, too late, he hadn't used a condom when I felt the heat dripping down my thighs. My stomach bucked as I straightened, turned to kiss his cheek, and make my way to the bathroom.

It still smelled. I flicked the fan on, the hum and the sound of the water drowning out the small noise that left me. A whimper. I wet a rag and cleaned myself and tried not to think of the consequences of his decision.

I slipped on my nightgown, stripped the makeup from my face and padded back out into the bedroom where he was in bed already. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I felt him move behind me.

"I think we're going to have to cut the wine out. It looks like you might have put on a few pounds." He spoke the words casually. "Now let's go to bed. I have an early morning and probably a late night at the office again."

"Of course, dear." Shifting, I laid down next to him, feeling the bed shift again as he rolled to face away from me. It was the only thing I felt as the stars glittered through my window, out of reach.

[weareautumncourt]

We return.

The seasons swing. That which dies need not remain so. The Court of Autumn returns from where we waited in liminal uncertainty. To those who feared our loss, let this be a lesson. Autumn will always return. (to drop the bit for a moment, I want to thank everyone who supported me during this blog's temporary absence. Hopefully it'll never happen again!)

[photografya-deactivated20230917]

[the-hedge-has-thorns]

[the-hedge-has-thorns]

[the-hedge-has-thorns]

[the-hedge-has-thorns]

[freakxwannaxbe]

There is an old belief in Serbian villages and small towns that certain pumpkins (and watermelons), when left outside during a full moon, will turn in to a vampire.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

☆Patreon ☆ Commission info ☆ Buy me coffee ☆ Twitter ☆ Instagram☆

[lovingempress]

*whisper chants* vampire pumpkin vampire pumpkins vampire pumpkins

[shieldmaiden19]

This is the quality fall shit I’m here for

[severalowls]

I think it’s great that Pumpkins (and other squash) were only introduced to Europe around 1600 and the Serbs wasted absolutely no time blaming them for their problems.

[ex0skeletal-undead]

Works by Istrandar

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[autumncozy]

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[allyouneediswall]

[hollypepper]

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[the-hedge-has-thorns]