Gwylim, the intolerable stable boy, who is always where he is seldom wanted, calls to me with his idiot questions. I look at her hard. “Holy Sarah. I will make you.” I am cold now. And so I eat, because food no longer burns my tongue. First, pottage, bread. Then sugared fruit, mutton, aged cheese. Apples. I looked over to my desk. An apple, once ruby red and now rotting, glints in the pale moonlight. A bite has been taken from the side. ‘
The Anchoress – Pastiche Amy Hale
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